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 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVERSITY 
 
 OF I L LI NOIS 
 
 823 
 
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 < 8c J Vic 
 
 BOO^" BOOKS* 
 nottincha
 
 • 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of IHinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 
 • 
 
 http://ww,w.archive.org/details/basilstoryofmode01coll
 
 BASIL: 
 
 A STORY OF MODERN LIFE. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 BASIL: 
 
 A STORY OF MODERN LIFE. 
 
 BY W. WILKIE COLLINS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "ANTONINA," "RAMBLES BEYOND RAILWAYS," &C. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 YOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1852. 
 
 dvkl
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Scliulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 5AD 
 
 C<o«) lr 
 
 /s-yx- 
 
 LETTER OF DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES JAMES WARD, ESQ. 
 
 It has long been one of my pleasantest 
 anticipations to look forward to the time 
 when I might offer to you, my old and 
 dear friend, some such acknowledgment 
 of the value I place on your affection for 
 me, and of my grateful sense of the many 
 acts of kindness by which that affection 
 has been proved, as I now gladly and 
 cordially offer in this place. In dedicating 
 the present work to you, I fulfil therefore
 
 VI DEDICATION. 
 
 a purpose which, for some time past, I 
 have sincerely desired to achieve ; and, 
 more than that, I gain for myself the 
 satisfaction of knowing that there is one 
 page, at least, of my book, on which I 
 shall always look with unalloyed pleasure 
 — the page that bears your name. 
 
 I might have waited longer, perhaps, 
 in the hope of producing what might be 
 more worthy your acceptance than the 
 work which I now inscribe to you. But 
 1 was unwilling to let the present op- 
 portunity pass, for the sake of any 
 future chance of this kind — at best, a 
 very remote and uncertain one: and I 
 felt, it must be confessed, something like 
 gratification at once more challenging your 
 long- tried friendship to the proof (well 
 knowing your readiness that I should so 
 prove it), by connecting your name with
 
 DEDICATION. Vll 
 
 the most hazardous venture which, as a 
 writer of fiction, I can put forth — my 
 second novel. 
 
 Having gained my modicum of literary 
 success (such as it is !) by writing a clas- 
 sical romance, it may be thought strange, 
 by those who recollect enough of my 
 former attempt to take some little interest 
 in this, that I should have abandoned the 
 field of my first labours, and have left 
 past centuries for the present. The reason 
 for this change is simple and soon told. 
 I could not find, in Ancient History, any 
 second subject which, to my judgment 
 offered itself so perfectly to all the require- 
 ments of romance, as the subject I was 
 fortunate enough to find for " Anton in a." 
 On that account, therefore, I abandoned 
 the idea of building my second work on 
 a classical foundation. Many subjects in
 
 Vlll DEDICATION. 
 
 Modern History I knew were open to me ; 
 one subject, in particular, I thought of 
 choosing, and may yet take up at some 
 future time, as good groundwork for a 
 romance. But, on this occasion, the temp- 
 tation of trying if I could not successfully 
 address myself, at once, to the readiest 
 sympathies and the largest number of 
 readers, by writing a story of our own 
 times, was too much for me. So I wrote 
 this book. 
 
 Let me now tell you, and through you, 
 those who may occupy themselves with 
 these pages, what I have tried to do, to 
 make my work worth perusal. 
 
 In writing a story of past times, I 
 had been obliged to go through careful 
 preliminary training for the task. In 
 writing a story of present times, I thought 
 it mv duty to devote myself, before I
 
 DEDICATION. IX 
 
 began work, to a second training, just as 
 careful, though of a very different nature 
 from the first. As the reading of past realities 
 in books, gave me the materials for making 
 " Antonina ;" so the reading of present 
 realities in men, must give me the mate- 
 rials for making " Basil." Industry in 
 collecting useful information ; discretion in 
 selecting it; and care and intelligence in 
 using it, were just as important in the 
 one case, as in the other. The difference 
 was in the quality of the knowledge re- 
 quired, not in the quantity : and the 
 difficulty of employing that knowledge 
 successfully when I had got it, was tenfold 
 greater in the new task than in the old. 
 When I was writing about the people of 
 the fifth century to the people of the 
 nineteenth, many and many an error might 
 be expected to pass unnoticed : when I 
 
 b 2
 
 X DEDICATION. 
 
 was writing of the people of our own 
 times, to the people of our own times, 
 what single error, what misappreciation 
 even, could hope to escape ? 
 
 Feeling the difficulties of my undertaking 
 thus, I thought long over w r hat I desired to 
 do, hefore I ventured to take pen in hand ; 
 and on at length beginning this book, re- 
 solved (in the painter's phrase) to " work 
 from the living model," not only in drawing 
 my characters, but in constructing my plot 
 as well. Accordingly, I founded the main 
 event out of which this story springs, on a 
 fact in real life which had come within my 
 own knowledge : and in afterwards shaping 
 the course of the narrative thus suggested, 
 guided it as often as I could where I knew 
 by my own experiences, and by the ex- 
 periences incidentally related to me by 
 others, that it would touch on something real
 
 DEDICATION. XI 
 
 and true, in its progress. My idea was, 
 that the more of the Actual I could 
 garner up as a text to speak from, the more 
 certain I might feel of the genuineness and 
 value of the Ideal which was sure to 
 spring out of it. Fancy and Imagina- 
 tion, Grace and Beauty, all those qualities 
 which are to the work of Art what scent 
 and colour are to the flower, can only grow 
 towards Heaven by taking root in earth. 
 After all, is not the noblest poetry of prose 
 fiction the poetry of every-day truth ? 
 
 Directing my characters and my story, 
 then, towards the light of Reality wherever 
 I could find it, I have not hesitated to violate 
 some of the sentimental conventionalities of 
 sentimental fiction. For instance, the first 
 love-meeting of two of the personages in 
 this book, occurs (where the real love-meeting 
 from which it is drawn, occurred) in the very
 
 Xll DEDICATION. 
 
 last place, and under the very last circum- 
 stances which the artifices of sentimental 
 writing would sanction. Will my lovers 
 excite ridicule instead of interest, because 
 I have truly represented them as seeing 
 each other where hundreds of other lovers 
 have first seen each other, as hundreds of 
 people will readily admit when they read 
 the passage to which I refer ? I am 
 sanguine enough to think not. 
 
 So again, in certain parts of this book 
 where I have attempted to excite the sus- 
 pense or pity of the reader, I have admitted 
 as perfectly fit accessories to the scene the 
 most ordinary street-sounds that could be 
 heard, and the most ordinary street-events 
 that could occur, at the time and in the 
 place represented — believing that by adding 
 to truth, they were adding to tragedy — 
 adding by all the force of fair contrast —
 
 DEDICATION. Xlll 
 
 adding as no artifices of mere writing 
 possibly could add, let them be ever so cun- 
 ningly introduced, by ever so crafty a hand. 
 
 Allow me to return for one moment to 
 the story which these pages contain. 
 
 Believing that the Novel and the Play are 
 twin-sisters in the family of Fiction ; that the 
 one is a drama narrated, as the other is a 
 drama acted ; and that all the strong and 
 deep emotions which the Play-writer is privi- 
 leged to excite, the Novel-writer is privileged 
 to excite also, I have not thought it either 
 politic or necessary, while adhering to reali- 
 ties, to adhere to common-place, everyday reali- 
 ties only. In other words, I have not stooped 
 so low as to assure myself of the reader's 
 belief in the probability of my story, by never 
 once calling on him for the exercise of his 
 faith. Those extraordinary accidents and 
 events which happen to few men, seemed to
 
 XIV DEDICATION. 
 
 me to be as legitimate materials for fiction to 
 work with, when there was a good object in 
 using them, as the ordinary accidents and 
 events which may, and do, happen to us all. 
 By appealing to genuine sources of interest 
 within the reader's own experience, I could 
 certainly gain his attention to begin with ; 
 but it would be only by appealing to other 
 sources (as genuine in their way) beyond his 
 own experience, that I could hope to fix his 
 interest and excite his suspense, to occupy his 
 feelings, or to stir his thoughts. 
 
 In writing thus — briefly and very gene- 
 rally — (for I must not delay you too long 
 from the story), I can but repeat, though I 
 hope almost unnecessarily, that I am now 
 only speaking of what I have tried to do. 
 Between the purpose hinted at here, and the 
 execution of that purpose contained in the 
 succeeding pages, lies the broad line of sepa-
 
 DEDICATION. XV 
 
 ration which distinguishes between the will 
 and the deed. How far I may fall short of 
 another man's standard remains to be disco- 
 vered ; but how far I have fallen short of mv 
 own, I know painfully well. My only desire, 
 in writing this letter, is to claim credit for 
 one humble, work-a-day merit to which any- 
 body may attain by trying — the merit of 
 having really taken pains to do my best. 
 
 There can be no literary man, I think, with 
 the smallest respect for his vocation or for 
 himself — whether he be a Master of his Art, 
 or only a student of it (like me) — but must 
 feel that this first, great merit of " pains- 
 taking " has now become doubly and trebly a 
 merit in the present state of " light litera- 
 ture," as it is termed, in England. 
 
 The mob of ladies and gentlemen who play 
 at writing is increasing, in our day, to for- 
 midable proportions. With every new season
 
 XVI DEDICATION. 
 
 appear additional numbers of the holiday 
 authors, who sit down to w r rite a book as 
 they would sit down to a game at cards — 
 leisurely-living people who coolly select as an 
 amusement " to kill time," an occupation 
 which can only be pursued, even creditably, 
 by the patient, uncompromising, reverent 
 devotion of every moral and intellectual 
 faculty, more or less, which a human being 
 has to give. Books, by hundreds, are written 
 now, which — making the largest allowances 
 for human vanity — it is difficult to imagine 
 could ever have seen the light, if the writers 
 themselves had only ventured on the perilous 
 ceremony of reading them over, on com- 
 pletion, within easy distance of a waste-paper 
 basket or a lighted fire. And books of this 
 kind are not only printed, but published ! 
 not only published, but reviewed ! not only 
 reviewed, but read ! not only read, but
 
 DEDICATION. XV11 
 
 (marvel of all marvels !) sometimes, even, 
 actually sold ! ! To escape classification with 
 the ofT-hand professors of this sort of off- 
 hand authorship, by the homely but honour- 
 able distinction of being workers and not 
 players at their task, has really become an 
 object of importance, now-a-days, for those 
 who follow Literature as a study and respect 
 it as a science. If my book should not 
 succeed, let me at least try if I cannot 
 establish my right to the just, though hard 
 verdict, that I have failed through want of 
 ability, and not through want of care ! 
 
 One word now, before I close this letter, 
 on the manner in which the moral purpose 
 of the following pages is w 7 orked out — the 
 purpose itself, being everywhere plain enough, 
 I would fain hope, to require no explanation 
 on my part. 
 
 Nobody w T ho admits that the business of
 
 XV111 DEDICATION. 
 
 fiction is to exhibit human life, can deny that 
 scenes of misery and crime must of neces- 
 sity, while human nature remains what it is, 
 form part of that exhibition — nobody can 
 assert that such scenes are either useless or 
 immoral in their effect on the reader, 
 when they are turned to a plainly and 
 purely moral purpose. If I am asked 
 why I have written certain scenes in this 
 book, my answer is to be found in the 
 universally-accepted truth w 7 hich the pre- 
 ceding words express. I have a right to 
 appeal to that truth ; for I guided myself by 
 it throughout. In deriving the moral lesson 
 which the following pages contain, from those 
 examples of error and crime which would 
 most strikingly and naturally teach it, I de- 
 termined to do justice to the honesty of my 
 object by speaking out. In drawing the 
 two characters, whose actions bring about
 
 DEDICATION. XIX 
 
 the darker scenes of my story, I did 
 not forget that it was my duty, while 
 striving to pourtray them naturally, to put 
 them to a good moral use ; and at some 
 sacrifices, in certain places, of dramatic effect 
 (though I trust with no sacrifice of truth to 
 Nature) I have shown the conduct of 
 the vile, as always, in a greater or less 
 degree, associated with something that is 
 selfish, contemptible, or cruel in motive. 
 Whether anv of mv better characters mav 
 succeed in endearing themselves to the 
 reader, I know not : but this I do certainly 
 know : — that I shall in no instance ever 
 once cheat him out of his sympathies in 
 favour of the bad. 
 
 To those persons who dissent from the 
 broad principles here adverted to ; who deny 
 that it is the novelist's vocation to do more 
 than merely amuse them ; who shrink from
 
 XX DEDICATION. 
 
 all honest and serious reference, in books, to 
 subjects which they think of in private and talk 
 of in public everywhere ; who see covert im- 
 plications where nothing is implied, and im- 
 proper allusions where nothing improper is 
 alluded to ; whose innocence is in the word, 
 and not in the thought ; whose morality 
 stops at the tongue, and never gets on to the 
 heart — to those persons, I should consider it 
 loss of time, and worse, to offer any further 
 explanation of my motives, than the sufficient 
 explanation which I have given already. I do 
 not address myself to them in this book, and 
 shall never think of addressing myself to them 
 in any other. 
 
 I have now said as much as custom autho- 
 rises me to venture on, by way of introduction 
 — more I find, on looking back, than it was 
 originally my purpose to say. Have I de-
 
 DEDICATION. XXI 
 
 laved too long over these prefatory words? 
 I can only ask the reader to remember that, 
 though they come first, they are the last 
 words I write in this book, which, however it 
 fare with others, has been for manv months 
 a dear and an absorbing employment for me. 
 When an old friend is leaving us, to set 
 forth on a doubtful journey, we often linger 
 on the threshold longer than we ever in- 
 tended, at bidding him farewell. I have no 
 better excuse than this may suggest, for 
 lingering so long here. 
 
 W. Wilkie Collins. 
 
 HANOVER TERRACE, REGENT'S PARK, 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1852.
 
 PART I.
 
 BASIL. 
 
 I. 
 
 What am I now about to write? 
 
 The history of little more than the events 
 of one year, out of the twenty-four years of 
 my life. 
 
 Why do I undertake such an employ- 
 ment as this ? 
 
 Perhaps, because I think that my narra- 
 tive may do good ; because I hope that, one 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 BASIL. 
 
 day, it may be put to some warning use. 
 There have been men who, on their death- 
 beds, have left directions that their bodies 
 should be anatomised, as an offering to 
 science. In these pages, written on the 
 death-bed of enjoyment and hope, I give 
 my heart, already anatomised, as an offer- 
 ing to human nature. 
 
 Perhaps, while desiring to write a confes- 
 sion, I desire to write an apology as well. 
 I am now about to relate the story of an 
 error, innocent in its beginning, guilty in 
 its progress, fatal in its results ; and I would 
 fain hope that my plain and true record 
 will of itself, plainly and truly show, that 
 this error was not committed altogether 
 without excuse. When these pages are 
 found after my death, they will perhaps be 
 calmly read and gently judged, as relics 
 solemnised by the atoning shadows of the
 
 BASIL. 27 
 
 grave. Then, the hard sentence against 
 me, may be repented of; the children of 
 the next generation of our house may be 
 taught to speak charitably of my memory ; 
 and may often, of their own accord, think 
 of me kindly in the thoughtful watches of 
 the night. 
 
 Prompted by these motives, and by others 
 which I feel, but cannot analyse, I now 
 begin my self-imposed occupation. Hidden 
 amid the far hills of the far West of En- 
 gland, surrounded only by the few simple 
 inhabitants of a fishing hamlet on the Cor- 
 nish coast, there is little fear that my 
 attention will be distracted from my task ; 
 and as little chance that any indolence on 
 my part will delay its speedy accomplish- 
 ment. I live under a threat of impending 
 hostility, which may descend and overwhelm 
 me, I know not how soon, or in what 
 
 c 2 '
 
 28 BASIL. 
 
 manner. An enemy, determined and deadly, 
 patient alike to wait days or years for his 
 opportunity, is ever lurking after me in the 
 dark. In entering on my new employment, 
 I cannot say of my time, that it may be 
 mine for another hour; of my life, that it 
 may well last till evening. The spur that 
 goads me to activity, goads without ceasing, 
 and goads to the death. 
 
 Thus, it is as no leisure work that I 
 begin my narrative — and begin it, too, on 
 my birthday ! On this day I complete my 
 twenty-fourth year; the first new year of 
 my life, which has not been greeted by a 
 single kind word, or a single loving wish. 
 But one look of welcome can still find me 
 in my solitude — the lovely morning look of 
 nature, as I now see it from the casement 
 of my room. Brighter and brighter shines 
 out the lusty sun from banks of purple,
 
 BASIL 29 
 
 rainy cloud ; fishermen are spreading their 
 nets to dry on the lower declivities of the 
 rocks ; children are playing round the boats 
 drawn up on the beach - 3 the sea-breeze blows 
 fresh and pure towards the shore — all ob- 
 jects are brilliant to look on, all sounds are 
 pleasant to hear, as my pen traces the first 
 lines which open the story of my life.
 
 30 BASIL. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am the second son of an English gen- 
 tleman of large fortune. Our family is, I 
 believe, one of the most ancient in this 
 country. On my father's side, it dates 
 back beyond the Conquest ; on my mother's, 
 it is not so old, but the pedigree is nobler. 
 Besides my elder brother, I have one sister, 
 younger than myself. My mother died 
 shortly after giving birth to her last child.
 
 BASIL. 3 1 
 
 Circumstances which will appear here- 
 after, have forced me to abandon my father's 
 name. I have been obliged in honour to 
 resign it ; and in honour I abstain from 
 mentioning it here. Accordingly, at the 
 head of these pages, I have only placed my 
 Christian name — not considering it of any 
 importance to add the surname which I have 
 assumed; and which I may, perhaps, be 
 obliged to change for some other, at no very 
 distant period. It will now, I hope, be 
 understood from the outset, whv I never 
 mention my brother and sister but by their 
 Christian names ; why a blank occurs 
 wherever my father's name should appear; 
 why my own is kept concealed in this 
 narrative, as it is kept concealed in the 
 world. 
 
 My mother died when I was too young 
 to preserve more than a faint recollection of
 
 32 BASIL. 
 
 her. I just remember a thin, pale lady, 
 very quiet and gentle, with a sad kindness 
 in her manner which impressed me, as a 
 child; and taught me intuitively to respect 
 as well as love her. I used to sit on her 
 knee for hours together, in the nursery, 
 looking up curiously into her pure melan- 
 choly eyes, or watching her fingers, loaded 
 with rich rings, as she fondled and amused 
 me — wondering all the time, whether she 
 had ever been such a child as I was, or 
 whether she might not be, in truth, some 
 lovely Dream- Queen, who was waiting the 
 time to take me away with her to some 
 lovely Dream-Country, where the sun shone 
 always in summer brightness, and the garden 
 flowers knew no death. 
 
 I have been told by old servants and old 
 friends, that my mother was not always so 
 calm and so self-restrained, as I remember
 
 BASIL. 33 
 
 her ; but that some great sorrow had passed 
 over her in her youth, leaving its mark on 
 her heart, and its traces on her manner for 
 ever after. My father never said a word 
 about this — it may be true or not — she has 
 gone now ; and that sorrow, if she had it, 
 has gone with her to the City of Solace, 
 beneath whose gates is the darkness in which 
 all grief is quenched for ever — in whose 
 palaces is the light in which all joy is born. 
 
 The story of my boyhood and youth has 
 little to interest — nothing that is new. My 
 education was the education of hundreds of 
 others in my rank of life. I was first taught 
 at a public school, and then went to college 
 to complete with due propriety, what is 
 termed, " a liberal education." 
 
 My life at college has not left me a single 
 pleasant recollection. I found sycophancy 
 established there, as a principle of action ; 
 
 c 3
 
 34 BASIL. 
 
 flaunting on the lord's gold tassel in the 
 street ; enthroned on the lord's dais in the 
 dining-room. The most learned student in 
 my college — the man whose life was most 
 exemplary, whose acquirements were most 
 admirable — was shown me sitting, as a 
 commoner, in the lowest place. The son of 
 
 the Marquis of , who had failed at the 
 
 last examination, was pointed out a few 
 minutes afterwards, dining in solitary gran- 
 deur at a raised table, above the reverend 
 scholars who had turned him back as a 
 dunce. I had just arrived at the Univer- 
 sity, and had just been congratulated on 
 entering " a venerable seminary of learning 
 and religion." 
 
 Trite and common -place though it be, I 
 mention this circumstance attending my 
 introduction to college, because it formed 
 the first cause which tended to diminish
 
 BASIL. 35 
 
 my faith in the institution to which I was 
 attached. I soon grew to regard my uni- 
 versity training as a sort of necessary evil, 
 to be patiently submitted to. I read for no 
 honours, and joined no particular set of 
 men. I studied the literature of France, 
 Italy, and Germany ; just kept up my 
 classical knowledge sufficiently to take my 
 degree ; and left college with no other 
 reputation than a reputation for indolence 
 and reserve. 
 
 When I returned home, it was thought 
 necessary, as I was a younger son, and could 
 inherit none of the landed property of the 
 family, except in the case of my brother's 
 dying without children, that I should belong 
 to a profession. My father had the patron- 
 age of some valuable "livings," and good 
 interest with more than one member of 
 the government. The church, the army, the
 
 36 BASIL. 
 
 navy, and, in the last instance, the bar, 
 were offered to me to choose from. I selected 
 the last. 
 
 My father appeared to be a little asto- 
 nished at my choice; but he made no 
 remarks on it, except simply telling me not 
 to forget that the bar was a good stepping- 
 stone to parliament. My real ambition, 
 however, was not to make a name in 
 parliament, but a name in literature. I 
 had already engaged myself in the hard, but 
 glorious service of the pen; and I was 
 determined to persevere. The profession 
 which offered me the greatest facilities for 
 pursuing my project, was the profession 
 which I was ready to prefer. So I chose the 
 bar. 
 
 Thus, I entered life under the fairest 
 auspices. Though a younger son, I knew 
 that my father's wealth, exclusive of his
 
 BASIL. 37 
 
 landed property, secured me an independent 
 income far beyond my wants. I had no 
 extravagant habits; no tastes that I could 
 not gratify as soon as formed; no cares or 
 responsibilities of any kind. I might practice 
 my profession or not, just as I chose. I 
 could devote myself wholly and unreservedly 
 to literature, knowing that, in my case, the 
 struggle for fame could never be identical— 
 terribly, though gloriously identical — with 
 the struggle for bread. For me, the morning 
 sunshine of life was sunshine without a 
 cloud ! 
 
 I might attempt, in this place, to sketch 
 my own character as it was at that time. 
 But what man can say : — I will sound the 
 depth of my own vices and measure the 
 height of my own virtues; and be as good 
 as his word ? We can neither know nor 
 judge ourselves — others may judge, but
 
 38 BASIL. 
 
 cannot know us — God alone judges and 
 knows too. Let my character appear — as 
 far as any human character can appear in 
 its integrity, in this world — in my actions, 
 when I describe the one eventful passage in 
 my life which forms the basis of this narra- 
 tive. In the meantime, it is first necessary 
 that I should say more about the members of 
 my family. Two of them, at least, will be 
 found important to the progress of events in 
 these pages. I pretend not to judge their 
 characters; I only describe them — whether 
 rightly or wrongly, I know not — as they 
 appeared to me.
 
 BASIL. 39 
 
 III. 
 
 I always considered my father — I speak 
 of him in the past tense, because we are 
 now separated for ever ; because he is hence- 
 forth as dead to me as if the grave had 
 closed over him — I always considered my 
 father to be the proudest man I ever knew ; 
 the proudest man I ever heard of. His 
 was not that conventional pride, which the 
 popular notions are fond of characterising
 
 40 BASIL. 
 
 by a stiff, stately carriage ; by a rigid ex- 
 pression of features ; by a hard, severe 
 intonation of voice; by set speeches of con- 
 tempt for poverty and rags, and rhapsodical 
 braggadocio about rank and breeding. My 
 father's pride had nothing of this about it. 
 It was that quiet, negative, courteous, inbred 
 pride, which only the closest observation 
 could detect; which no ordinary observers 
 ever detected at all. To superficial people, 
 or mere acquaintances, the only salient points 
 discernible about his manners and language, 
 were the perfect politeness and almost 
 womanly delicacy of the one, and the 
 remarkable tact, refinement, and modera- 
 tion of the other. 
 
 Who that observed him in communica- 
 tion with any of the farmers on any of his 
 estates — who that saw the manner in which 
 he lifted his hat, when he accidentally met
 
 BASIL. 41 
 
 any of those farmers' wives — who that 
 noticed his hearty welcome to the man of 
 the people, when that man happened to be 
 a man of genius — would have thought him 
 proud? On such occasions as these, if he 
 had any pride, it was impossible to detect 
 it. But seeing him when, for instance, an 
 author and a new-made peer of no ancestry, 
 entered his house together — observing merely 
 the entirely different manner in which he 
 shook hands with each — remarking that the 
 polite cordiality was all for the man of letters, 
 who did not contest his family rank with 
 him, and the polite formality all for the man 
 of title, who did — you discovered where and 
 how he was proud in an instant. Here lay 
 his fretful point. The aristocracy of rank, 
 as separate from the aristocracy of ancestry, 
 was no aristocracy for him. He was jealous 
 of it; he hated it. Commoner, though he
 
 42 BASIL. 
 
 was, he considered himself the social superior 
 of any man, from a baronet up to a duke, 
 whose family was less ancient than his own. 
 
 Among a host of instances of this peculiar 
 pride of his which I could cite, I remember 
 one, characteristic enough to be taken as a 
 sample of all the rest. It happened when 
 I was quite a child, and was told me by 
 one of my uncles — now dead — who wit- 
 nessed the circumstance himself, and always 
 made a good story of it to the end of his 
 life. 
 
 A merchant of enormous wealth, who had 
 recently been raised to the peerage, was stay- 
 ing at one of our country houses. His 
 daughter, my uncle, and an Italian Abbe, 
 were the only guests besides. The mer- 
 chant was a tall, portly, loud-voiced, purple- 
 faced man, who bore his new honours with 
 a curious mixture of assumed pomposity
 
 BASIL. 43 
 
 and natural good-humour. The Abbe was 
 dwarfish and deformed, lean, sallow, sharp- 
 featured, with bright bird-like eyes, and a 
 low, soft voice. He was a political refugee, 
 dependant for the bread he eat, on the 
 money he received for teaching languages. 
 He might have been a crossing-sweeper, a 
 beggar from the streets ; and still my father 
 would have treated him as the principal 
 guest in the house, for this simple, all- 
 sufficient reason — he was a direct descen- 
 dant of one of the oldest of those famous 
 Roman families whose names are part of 
 the history of the Civil Wars in Italy. 
 
 On the first day, the party assembled for 
 dinner comprised the merchant's daughter, 
 my mother, an old lady w T ho had once been 
 her governess, and had always lived with 
 her since her marriage, the new Lord, the 
 Abbe, my father and my uncle. When
 
 44 BASIL. 
 
 dinner was announced, the peer advanced 
 in new-blown dignity, to offer his arm as 
 a matter of course to my mother. My 
 father's pale face flushed crimson in a 
 moment. He touched the magnificent 
 merchant-lord on the arm, and pointed 
 significantly, with a low bow, towards the 
 decrepid old lady who had once been my 
 mother's governess. Then, walking to the 
 other end of the room, where the penniless 
 Abbe was looking over a book in a corner, 
 he gravely and courteously led the little, 
 deformed, limping language-master, clad in 
 a long, threadbare, black coat, up to my 
 mother (whose shoulder the Abbe's head 
 hardly reached), held the door open for 
 them to pass out first, with his own 
 hand; politely invited the new nobleman, 
 who stood half-paralyzed between confusion 
 and astonishment, to follow with the tot-
 
 BASIL. 45 
 
 tering old lady on his arm; and then 
 returned to lead the peer's daughter down 
 to dinner himself. He only resumed his 
 wonted expression and manner, when he 
 had seen the little Abbe — the squalid, half- 
 starved representative of mighty barons of 
 the olden time — seated at the highest place 
 of the table by my mother's side. 
 
 It was by such accidental circumstances 
 as these that you discovered how T far he 
 was proud. He never boasted of his ances- 
 tors; he never even spoke of them, except 
 when he was questioned on the subject ; 
 but he never forgot them. They were the 
 very breath of his life; the deities of his 
 social worship ; the family treasures to be 
 held precious beyond all lands and all wealth, 
 all ambitions and all glories, by his children 
 and his children's children, to the end of 
 their race.
 
 46 BASIL. 
 
 In home-life he performed his duties 
 towards his family, honourably, delicately, 
 and kindly; I believe in his own way he 
 loved us all ; but we, his descendants, had 
 to share his heart with his ancestors — we 
 w T ere his household property as well as his 
 children. Every fair liberty was given to 
 us; every fair indulgence was granted to 
 us. He never displayed any suspicion, or 
 any undue severity. We were taught by 
 his direction, that to disgrace our family, 
 either by word or action, was the one fatal 
 crime which could never be forgotten and 
 never be pardoned. We were formed, under 
 his superintendence, in principles of religion, 
 honour, and industry ; and the rest was left 
 to our own moral sense, to our own grati- 
 tude, to our own comprehension of the duties 
 and privileges of our station. There was no 
 one point in his conduct towards any of us
 
 BASIL. 47 
 
 that we could complain of; and yet there 
 was something always incomplete in our 
 domestic relations. 
 
 It may seem incomprehensible, even ridi- 
 culous, to some persons, but it is never- 
 theless true, that we were none of us ever 
 on intimate terms with him. I mean bv 
 this, that he was a father to us, but never 
 a companion. There w T as something in his 
 manner, his quiet and unchanging manner, 
 which kept us almost unconsciously re- 
 strained. I never in mv life felt less at 
 my ease — I knew not why at the time — 
 than when I occasionally dined alone with 
 him. I never confided to him my schemes 
 for amusement as a boy ; or mentioned 
 more than generally my ambitious hopes, 
 as a young man. It was not that he would 
 have received such confidences with ridicule 
 or severity, he was incapable of it ; but that
 
 48 BASIL. 
 
 he seemed above them, unfitted to enter into 
 them, too far removed by his own thoughts 
 from such thoughts as ours. Thus, all 
 holiday councils were held with old ser- 
 vants; thus, my first pages of manuscript, 
 when I first tried authorship, were read by 
 my sister, and never penetrated into my 
 father's study. 
 
 Again, his mode of testifying displeasure 
 towards my brother or myself, had some- 
 thing terrible in its calmness, something that 
 we never forgot, and always dreaded as the 
 worst calamity that could befall us. 
 
 Whenever, as boys, we committed some 
 boyish fault, he never displayed outwardly 
 any irritation, except in the red spot that 
 was sure to come on his cheek at such 
 times — he simply altered his manner towards 
 us altogether. We were not soundly 
 lectured, or vehemently threatened, or
 
 BASIL. 49 
 
 positively punished in any way ; but, when 
 we came in contact with him, we were 
 treated with a cold, contemptuous politeness 
 (especially if our fault showed a tendency 
 to anything mean or ungentlemanlike) 
 which cut us to the heart. On these 
 occasions, we were not addressed by our 
 Christian names ; if we accidentally met 
 him out of doors, he was sure to turn aside 
 and avoid us ; if we asked a question, it was 
 answered in the briefest possible manner, as 
 if we had been strangers. His whole 
 course of conduct said, as though in so 
 manv words — vou have rendered yourselves 
 unfit to associate with your father ; he is 
 now making you feel that unfitness as deeply 
 as he does. We were left in this domestic 
 purgatory, for days, sometimes for weeks 
 together. To our boyish feelings (to mine 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 BASIL. 
 
 especially) there was no ignominy like it, 
 
 while it lasted. 
 
 I know not on what terms my father 
 
 lived with my mother. Towards my 
 
 sister, his demeanour always exhibited 
 
 something of the old-fashioned, affectionate 
 
 gallantry of a former age. He paid her 
 
 the same attention that he would have 
 
 paid to the highest lady in the land. He 
 
 led her into the dining-room, when we 
 
 were alone, exactly as he would have 
 
 led a duchess into a banquetting-hall. 
 
 He would allow us, as boys, to quit the 
 
 breakfast-table before he had risen himself; 
 
 but never before she had left it. If a 
 
 servant failed in duty towards him, the 
 
 servant was often forgiven ; if towards 
 
 ■ 
 her, the servant was sent away on the 
 
 spot. His daughter was in his eyes the 
 
 representative of her mother: the mistress
 
 BASIL. 5 1 
 
 of his house, as well as his child. It 
 was curious to see the mixture of high- 
 bred courtesy and fatherly love in his 
 manner, as he just gently touched her 
 forehead with his lips, when he first saw 
 her in the morning. 
 
 In person, my father was of not more 
 than middle height. He was very slenderly 
 and delicately made ; his head small, and 
 well set on his shoulders — his forehead more 
 broad than lofty — his complexion singularly 
 pale, except in moments of agitation, when 
 I have already noticed its tendency to 
 flush all over in an instant. His eves, 
 large and grey, had something com- 
 manding in their look ; they gave a certain 
 unchanging firmness and dignitv to his ex- 
 pression, not often met with. They betrayed 
 his birth and breeding, his old ancestral 
 prejudices, his chivalrous, severe sense of 
 
 D 2
 
 52 BASIL. 
 
 honour, in every glance. It required, in- 
 deed, all the masculine energy of look about 
 the upper part of his face, to redeem the 
 lower part from an appearance of effeminacy, 
 so delicately was it moulded in its fine 
 Norman outline. His smile was remarkable 
 for its sweetness — it was almost like a 
 woman's smile. In speaking, too, his lips 
 often trembled as women's do. If he ever 
 laughed, as a young man, his laugh must 
 have been very clear and musical ; but since 
 I can recollect him, I never heard it. In 
 his happiest moments, in the gayest society, 
 I have only seen him smile. 
 
 There were other characteristics of my 
 father's disposition and manner, which I 
 might mention ; but they will appear to 
 greater advantage, perhaps, hereafter, con- 
 nected with circumstances which especially 
 called them forth.
 
 BASIL. 53 
 
 IV. 
 
 When a family is possessed of large 
 landed property, the individual of that family 
 who shows least interest in its welfare ; who 
 is least fond of home, least connected by his 
 own sympathies with his relatives, least 
 ready to learn his duties or admit his 
 responsibilities, is often that very individual 
 who is to succeed to the family inheritance — 
 the eldest son.
 
 54 BASIL. 
 
 My brother Ralph was no exception to 
 this remark. We were educated together. 
 After our education was completed, I never 
 saw him, except for short periods. He 
 was almost always on the continent, for 
 some years after he left college. And when 
 he returned definitely to England, he did 
 not return to live under our roof. Both 
 in town and country he was our visitor, not 
 our inmate. 
 
 I recollect him at school — stronger, 
 taller, handsomer than I was: far bevond 
 me in popularity among the little com- 
 munitv we lived with : the first to lead a 
 daring exploit, the last to abandon it ; 
 now at the bottom of the class, now 7 at 
 the top — -just that sort of gay, boisterous, 
 fine-looking, dare-devil boy, whom old people 
 would instinctively turn round and smile after, 
 as they passed him by in a morning walk.
 
 BASIL. 55 
 
 Then, at college, he became illustrious 
 among rowers and cricketers, renowned as 
 a pistol shot, dreaded as a single-stick 
 player. No wine parties in the univer- 
 sity were such wine parties as his ; trades- 
 men gave him the first choice of 
 everything that was new ; young ladies 
 in the town fell in love with him by 
 dozens ; young tutors with a tendency 
 to dandyism, copied the cut of his coat 
 and the tie of his cravat; even the awful 
 heads of houses looked leniently on his 
 delinquencies. The gay, hearty, handsome 
 young English gentleman, carried a charm 
 about with him that subdued everybody. 
 Though I was his favourite butt, both 
 at school and college, I never quarrelled 
 with him in my life. I always let him 
 ridicule my dress, manners, and habits 
 in his own reckless, boisterous way, as if it
 
 56 BASIL. 
 
 had been a part of his birthright privilege to 
 laugh at me as much as he chose. 
 
 Thus far, my father had no worse 
 anxieties about him, than those occasioned 
 by his high spirits and his heavy debts. 
 But when he returned home — when the 
 debts had been paid, and it was next 
 thought necessary to cool down the high 
 spirits to something like a calm domestic 
 temperature; to drill the free careless 
 energies into something like useful discipline 
 — then my father's trials and difficulties 
 began in earnest. 
 
 It was impossible to make Ralph compre- 
 hend and appreciate his position, as he was 
 desired to comprehend and appreciate it. 
 The steward gave up in despair all attempts 
 to enlighten him about the extent, value, 
 and management of the estates he was 
 to inherit. Then, a vigorous effort was
 
 BASIL. / 
 
 made to inspire him with ambition ; to get 
 him to go into Parliament. He laughed at 
 the idea. A commission in the Guards was 
 next offered to him. He refused it, because 
 he w 7 ould never be buttoned up in a red 
 coat; because he would submit to no re- 
 straints, fashionable or military ; because, in 
 short, he was determined to be his own 
 master. My father talked to him by the 
 hour together, about his duties and his 
 prospects, the cultivation of his mind, and 
 the example of his ancestors — and talked 
 in vain. He yawned, and fidgetted over 
 the emblazoned pages of his own family 
 pedigree, whenever they were opened before 
 him. 
 
 In the country, he cared for nothing but 
 hunting and shooting — it was as difficult 
 to make him go to a grand county dinner- 
 party, as to make him go to church. In 
 
 D 3
 
 58 BASIL. 
 
 town, he haunted the theatres, behind the 
 scenes as well as before; entertained actors 
 and actresses at Richmond; ascended in 
 balloons at Vauxhall ; went about with 
 detective policemen, seeing life among pick- 
 pockets and housebreakers; belonged to a 
 whist club, a supper club, a catch club, a 
 boxing club, a pic-nic club, an amateur 
 theatrical club ; and, in short, lived such 
 a careless, convivial life, that my father, 
 outraged in every one of his family pre- 
 judices and family refinements, almost ceased 
 to speak to him, and saw him as rarely 
 as possible. Occasionally, my sister's inter- 
 ference reconciled them again for a short 
 time ; her influence, gentle as it was, was 
 always powerfully felt for good, but she 
 could not change my brother's nature. 
 Persuade and entreat as anxiously as she 
 might, he was always sure to forfeit the
 
 BASIL. 59 
 
 paternal favour again, a few days after he 
 had been restored to it. 
 
 At last, matters were brought to their 
 climax by an awkward love adventure of 
 Ralph's with one of our tenants' daughters. 
 My father acted with his usual decision on 
 the occasion. He determined to apply a 
 desperate remedy : to let the refractory 
 eldest son run through his career in free- 
 dom, abroad, until he had well wearied 
 himself, and could return home a sobered 
 man. Accordingly, he procured for my 
 brother an attache's place in a foreign 
 embassy, and insisted on his leaving En- 
 gland forthwith. For once in a way, Ralph 
 was docile. He knew and cared nothing 
 about diplomacy; but he liked the idea of 
 living on the continent, and he was tired 
 of the tenant's daughter, so he took his 
 leave of home with his best "-race. Mv
 
 60 BASIL. 
 
 father saw him depart, with ill-concealed 
 agitation and apprehension ; although he 
 affected to feel satisfied that, flighty and 
 idle as Ralph was, he was incapable of 
 voluntarily dishonouring his family, even 
 in his most reckless moods. 
 
 After this, we heard little from my 
 brother. His letters were few and short, 
 and generally ended with petitions for 
 money. The only important news of him 
 that reached us, reached us through public 
 channels. He was making quite a con- 
 tinental reputation — a reputation, the bare 
 mention of which made my father wince. 
 Ralph was, in truth, becoming positively 
 illustrious in foreign society. He had 
 fought a duel ; he had imported a new 
 dance from Hungary ; he had contrived to 
 get the smallest groom that ever was seen 
 behind a cabriolet; he had carried off the
 
 BASIL. 61 
 
 reigning beauty among the opera dancers 
 of the day from all competitors; a great 
 French cook had composed a great French 
 dish, and christened it by his name ; he was 
 understood to be the "unknown friend," to 
 whom a literary Polish countess had dedi- 
 cated her " Letters against the restraint of 
 the Marriage Tie ;" a female German meta- 
 physician, sixty years old, had fallen (Plato- 
 nically) - in love with him, and had taken 
 to wTiting erotic romances in her old age. 
 Such were some of the rumours that reached 
 my father's ears on the subject of his son 
 and heir ! 
 
 After a long absence, he came home on 
 a visit. How 7 well I remember the astonish- 
 ment he produced in the whole household ! 
 He had become a foreigner in manners and 
 appearance. His mustachios were magnifi- 
 cent; miniature toys in gold and jewellery
 
 62 BASIL. 
 
 hung in clusters from his watch-chain ; his 
 shirt-front was a perfect filigree of lace and 
 cambric. He brought with him his own 
 boxes of choice liqueurs and perfumes ; his 
 own smart, impudent, French valet ; his own 
 travelling bookcase of French novels, which 
 he opened with his own golden key. He 
 drank nothing but chocolate in the morn- 
 ing ; he had long interviews with the cook, 
 and revolutionized our dinner-table. All the 
 French newspapers were sent to him by a 
 London agent. He altered the arrangements 
 of his bed-room ; no servant but his own 
 valet was permitted to enter it. Family 
 portraits that hung there, were turned to 
 the walls, and portraits of French actresses 
 and Italian singers were stuck to the backs 
 of the canvasses. Then, he displaced a 
 beautiful little ebony cabinet which had 
 been in the family three hundred years;
 
 BASIL. 63 
 
 and set up in its stead a Cyprian temple 
 of his own, in miniature, with crystal doors, 
 behind which hung locks of hair, rings, 
 notes written on blush-coloured paper, and 
 other love-tokens kept as sentimental relics. 
 His influence became all-pervading among 
 us. He seemed to communicate to the 
 house the change that had taken place in 
 himself, from the reckless, racketty young 
 Englishman to the super-exquisite foreign 
 dandy. It was as if the fiery, effervescent 
 atmosphere of the Boulevards of Paris had 
 insolently penetrated into the old English 
 mansion, and ruffled and infected its pure, 
 quiet, native air, to the remotest corners 
 of the place. 
 
 My father was even more dismayed than 
 displeased by the alteration in my brother's 
 habits and manners — the eldest son was 
 now farther from his ideal of what an
 
 64 BASIL. 
 
 eldest son should be, than ever. As for 
 friends and neighbours, Ralph was heartily 
 feared and disliked by them, before he had 
 been in the house a week. He had an 
 ironically patient way of listening to their 
 conversation ; an ironically respectful man- 
 ner of demolishing their old-fashioned opi- 
 nions, and correcting their slightest mistakes, 
 which secretly aggravated them beyond en- 
 durance. It was worse still, when my father, 
 in despair, tried to tempt him into marriage, 
 as the one final chance of working his re- 
 form ; and invited half the marriageable 
 young ladies of our acquaintance to the 
 house, for his especial benefit. 
 
 Ralph had never shown much fondness 
 at home, for the refinements of good female 
 society. Abroad, he had lived as exclusively 
 as he possibly could, among women whose 
 characters ranged downwards by infinitesimal
 
 BASIL. 65 
 
 degrees, from the mysteriously doubtful to 
 the notoriously bad. The highly-bred, highly- 
 refined, highly-accomplished young English 
 beauties had no charm for him. He detected 
 at once the domestic conspiracy of which he 
 was destined to become the victim. He 
 often came up stairs, at night, into my bed- 
 room ; and while he was amusing himself by 
 derisively kicking about my simple clothes 
 and simple toilette apparatus ; while he was 
 laughing in his old careless way at my quiet 
 habits and monotonous life, used to slip in, 
 parenthetically, all sorts of sarcasms about 
 our young lady guests. To him, their 
 manners were horribly inanimate ; their in- 
 nocence, hypocrisy of education. Pure com- 
 plexions and regular features were very well, 
 he said, as far as they went; but when a 
 girl could not walk properly, when she shook 
 hands with you with cold fingers, when hav-
 
 66 BASIL. 
 
 ing good eyes she could not make a stimu- 
 lating use of them, when she stared or 
 blushed at the gallant jargon of the opera 
 lobby — then it was time to sentence the 
 regular features and pure complexions to be 
 taken back forthwith to the nurserv from 
 which they came. For his part, he missed 
 the conversation of his witty Polish Countess, 
 and longed for another pancake-supper with 
 his favourite grisettes. 
 
 The failure of my father's last experiment 
 with Ralph soon became apparent. Watch- 
 ful and experienced mothers began to sus- 
 pect that my brother's method of flirtation 
 was dangerous, and his style of waltzing 
 improper. One or two ultra-cautious parents, 
 alarmed by the laxity of his manners and 
 opinions, removed their daughters out of 
 harm's way, by shortening their visits. The 
 rest were spared any such necessity. My
 
 BASIL. 67 
 
 father suddenly discovered that Ralph was 
 devoting himself rather too significantly to 
 a young married woman who was staying 
 in the house. The same day he had a long 
 private interview with my brother. What 
 passed between them, I know not; but it 
 must have been something serious. Ralph 
 came out of my father's private study, very 
 pale and very silent ; ordered his luggage 
 to be packed directly ; and the next morning 
 departed, with his French valet, and his 
 multifarious French goods and chattels, for 
 the continent. 
 
 Another interval passed; and then we 
 had another short visit from him. He was 
 still unaltered. My father's temper suffered 
 under this second disappointment. He be- 
 came more fretful and silent; more apt to 
 take offence than had been his wont. I 
 particularly mention the change thus pro-
 
 68 BASIL. 
 
 duced in his disposition, because that change 
 was destined, at no very distant period, to 
 act fatally upon me. 
 
 On this last occasion, also, there was 
 another serious disagreement between father 
 and son ; and Ralph left England again in 
 much the same way that he had left it 
 before. 
 
 Shortly after that second departure, we 
 heard that he had altered his manner of 
 life. He contracted, what would be termed 
 in the continental code of morals, a refor- 
 matory attachment to a woman older than 
 himself, who was living separated from her 
 husband, when he met with her. It was 
 this lady's lofty ambition to be his Minerva 
 as well as his Venus — to be Mentor and 
 mistress, both together! And she soon 
 proved herself to be well qualified for her 
 courageous undertaking. To the astonish-
 
 BASIL. 69 
 
 ment of every one, who knew him, Ralph 
 suddenly turned economical ; and, soon after- 
 wards, actually resigned his post at the 
 embassy, to be out of the way of tempta- 
 tion ! Since that, he has returned to En- 
 gland ; has devoted himself to collecting 
 snuff-boxes and learning the violin; and is 
 now living quietly in the suburbs of Lon- 
 don, still under the inspection of the reso- 
 lute female missionary who first worked 
 his reform. 
 
 Whether he will ever become the high- 
 minded, high-principled country gentleman, 
 that my father has always desired to see 
 him, it is useless for me to guess. On 
 the domains which he is to inherit, I 
 shall never perhaps set foot again : in the 
 halls where he will one day preside as 
 master, I shall never more be sheltered. 
 Let me now quit the subject of my elder
 
 70 BASIL. 
 
 brother, and turn to a theme that is 
 nearer to my heart; dear to me as the 
 last remembrance left that I can love ; 
 precious beyond all treasures in my solitude 
 and my exile from home. 
 
 My sister ! — well may I linger over 
 your beloved name in such a record as 
 this. A little farther on, and the darkness 
 of crime and grief will encompass me ; 
 here, my recollections of you kindle like a 
 pure light before my eyes — doubly pure by 
 contrast with what lies beyond. May your 
 kind eyes, love, be the first that fall on 
 these pages, when the writer has parted 
 from them for ever ! May your tender 
 hand be the first that touches these 
 leaves, when mine is cold ! Backward 
 in my narrative, Clara, wherever I have 
 but casually mentioned my sister, the pen 
 has trembled and stood still. At this
 
 BASIL. 7 1 
 
 place, where all my remembrances of you 
 throng upon me unrestrained, the tears 
 gather fast and thick beyond control ; and 
 for the first time since I began my task, 
 my courage and my calmness fail me. 
 
 It is useless to persevere longer. My 
 hand trembles; my eyes grow dimmer 
 and dimmer. I must close my labours for 
 the day, and go forth to gather strength 
 and resolution for to-morrow on the hill- 
 tops that overlook the sea.
 
 *7< 
 
 2 BASIL. 
 
 V. 
 
 My sister Clara, is four years younger 
 than I am. In form of face, in complexion, 
 and — except the eyes — in features, she bears 
 a striking resemblance to my father. Her 
 expression, however, must be very like what 
 my mother's was. Whenever I have looked 
 at her in her silent and thoughtful moments, 
 she has always appeared to freshen, and 
 even to increase, my vague childish recollec-
 
 BASIL. 73 
 
 tions of our lost mother. Her eyes have 
 that slight tinge of melancholy in their 
 tenderness, and that peculiar softness in 
 their repose, which is only seen in blue 
 eyes. Her complexion, pale as my father's 
 when she is neither speaking nor moving, 
 has in a far greater degree than his the 
 tendency to flush, not merely in moments 
 of agitation, but even when she is walking, 
 or talking on any subject that interests her. 
 Without this peculiarity, her paleness would 
 be a defect. With it, the absence of 
 any colour in her complexion but the 
 fugitive uncertain colour which I have de- 
 scribed, w 7 ould to some eves, debar her from 
 anv claims to beauty. And a beauty 
 perhaps she is not — at least, in the ordinary 
 acceptation of the term. 
 
 The lower part of her face is rather too 
 small for the upper, her figure is too 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 BASIL. 
 
 slight, the sensitiveness of her nervous 
 organisation is too constantly visible in her 
 actions and her looks. She would not fix 
 attention and admiration in a box at the 
 opera ; very few men passing her in the 
 street, would turn round to look after her; 
 very few women would regard her with 
 that slightingly attentive stare, that steady 
 depreciating scrutiny, which a dashing, 
 decided beauty so often receives (and so 
 often triumphs in receiving) from her 
 personal inferiors among her own sex. 
 The greatest charms that my sister has on 
 the surface, come from beneath it. 
 
 When you really knew her, when she 
 spoke to you freely, as to a friend — then, 
 the attraction of her voice, her smile, her 
 manner, impressed you indescribably. Her 
 slightest words and her commonest actions 
 interested and delighted you, you knew not
 
 BASIL. 10 
 
 why. There was a beauty about her 
 unassuming simplicity, her natural — exqui- 
 sitely natural — kindness of heart, and word, 
 and manner, which preserved its own 
 unobtrusive influence over you, in spite of 
 all other rival influences, be they what 
 they might. You missed and thought of 
 her, when you were fresh from the society 
 of the most beautiful and the most brilliant 
 women. You remembered a few kind, 
 pleasant words of hers when you forgot 
 the wit of the wittiest ladies, the learning 
 of the most learned. The influence thus 
 possessed, and unconsciously possessed by 
 my sister over every one with whom she 
 came in contact — over men especially — - 
 may, I think, be very simply accounted 
 for, in very few sentences. 
 
 We live in an age when too many 
 women appear to be ambitious of morally 
 
 e 2
 
 76 BASIL. 
 
 unsexing themselves before society, by aping 
 the language and the manners of men — 
 especially in reference to that miserable 
 modern dandyism of demeanour, which 
 aims at repressing all betrayal of warmth 
 of feeling ; which abstains from displaying 
 any enthusiasm on any subject whatever ; 
 which, in short, labours to make the 
 fashionable imperturbability of the face, 
 the faithful reflection of the fashionable 
 imperturbability of the mind. Women of 
 this exclusively modern order like to use 
 slang expressions in their conversation ; 
 assume a bastard-masculine abruptness in 
 their manners, a bastard-masculine licence 
 in their opinions ; aifect to ridicule those 
 outward developments of feeling which 
 pass under the general appellation of 
 " sentiment." Nothing impresses, agitates, 
 amuses, or delights them in a hearty,
 
 BASIL. 77 
 
 natural, womanly way. Sympathy looks 
 
 ironical, if they ever show it : love seems 
 
 to be an affair of calculation, or mockery, 
 
 or contemptuous sufferance, if they ever 
 feel it. This sort of thing is considered to 
 
 be a spirited rivalry for social pre-eminence 
 
 and liberty with men, a glorious abnegation 
 
 of the old-fashioned conventionalities of 
 
 nature; a triumphant denial (whatever the 
 
 physical differences may be) of any moral 
 
 or intellectual difference between the sexes ! 
 
 To women, whose manners and feelings 
 are regulated by such ideas as these, my 
 sister Clara presented as complete a 
 contrast as could well be conceived. In 
 this contrast lay the secret of her in- 
 fluence, of the voluntary tribute of love and 
 admiration which followed her wherever she 
 went. 
 
 Few men have not their secret moment-
 
 / BASIL. 
 
 of deep feeling — moments when, amid the 
 ' wretched flippancies and hypocrisies of 
 modern society, the image will present itself 
 to their minds of some woman, fresh, 
 innocent, gentle, sincere ; some woman 
 whose emotions are still warm and impress- 
 ible, whose affections and sympathies can 
 still appear in her actions, and give the 
 colour to her thoughts ; some woman in 
 whom we could put as perfect faith and 
 trust, as if we were children ; whom we 
 despair of finding near the hardening 
 influences of the world ; whom we could 
 scarcely venture to look for, except in 
 solitary places far away in the country; in 
 little rural shrines shut up from society, 
 among woods and fields, and lonesome 
 boundary-hills. When any women happen 
 to realise, or nearly to realise, such an 
 image as this (and they are still, thank
 
 BASIL. 79 
 
 heaven, to be found in all places — even in 
 the gay world itself) those are the women 
 
 who possess that universal influence which 
 
 no rivalry can ever approach. On them 
 
 really depends, and by them is really 
 
 preserved, that claim upon the sincere 
 
 respect and admiration of men, on which 
 
 the power of the whole sex is based — 
 
 the power so often assumed by the many : 
 
 so rarely possessed but by the few. 
 
 It was thus with my sister. Thus, 
 wherever she went, though without either 
 the inclination, or the ambition to shine, 
 she eclipsed women who were her superiors 
 in beauty, in accomplishments, in brilliancy 
 of manners and conversation — conquering 
 by no other weapon than the purely feminine 
 charm of everything she said and every- 
 thing she did. 
 
 But it was not amid the gaiety and
 
 80 BASIL. 
 
 grandeur of a London season that her 
 character was displayed to the greatest 
 advantage. It was when she was living 
 where she loved to live, in the old country- 
 house, among the old friends and old 
 servants who would every one of them 
 have died a hundred deaths for her sake, 
 that you could study and love her best. 
 Then, the charm there was in the mere 
 presence of the kind, gentle, happy young 
 English girl, who could enter into every- 
 body's interests and be grateful for every- 
 body's love, possessed its best and brightest 
 influence. At pic-nics, lawn-parties, little 
 country gatherings of all sorts, she was 
 in her own quiet, natural manner, always 
 the presiding spirit of general comfort 
 and general friendship. Even the rigid 
 laws of country punctillio relaxed before 
 her unaffected cheerfulness and irresistible
 
 BASIL. 8 1 
 
 good-nature. She always contrived — no- 
 body ever knew how — to lure the most 
 formal people into forgetting their formality, 
 and becoming natural for the rest of the 
 day. Even a heavy-headed, lumbering, 
 silent country squire, was not too much 
 for her. She managed to make him feel 
 at his ease, when no one else would 
 undertake the task; she could listen 
 patiently to his confused speeches about 
 dogs, horses, and the state of the crops, 
 when other conversations were proceeding 
 in which she was really interested; she 
 could receive any little grateful attention 
 that he wished to pay her — no matter how 
 awkward or ill-timed — as she received atten- 
 tions from any one else, with a manner 
 which showed she considered it as a favour 
 granted to her sex, not as a right accorded 
 to it. 
 
 e 3
 
 82 BASIL. 
 
 So, again, she always succeeded in 
 diminishing the long list of those pitiful 
 affronts and offences, which play such 
 important parts in the social drama of 
 country society. She was a perfect Apostle- 
 errant of the order of Reconciliation; and, 
 wherever she went, cast out the devil 
 Sulkiness, from all his strongholds — the 
 lofty and the lowly alike. Our good rector 
 used to call her his Volunteer Curate ; 
 and declare that she preached by a timely 
 word, or a persuasive look, the best prac- 
 tical sermons on the blessings of peace- 
 making that were ever composed. 
 
 With all this untiring good-nature, with 
 all this resolute industry in the task of 
 
 making every one happy whom she 
 approached, there was mingled some 
 inherent, indescribable influence, which in- 
 variably preserved her from the presump-
 
 BASIL. 83 
 
 tion, even of the most presuming people. 
 I never knew anybody venturesome enough — 
 either by word or look — to take a liberty 
 with her. There was something about her 
 which inspired respect as well as love. 
 My father, following the bent of his 
 peculiar and favourite ideas, always thought 
 it was the look of her race in her eyes, 
 the ascendancy of her race in her manners. 
 I believe it to have proceeded from a 
 simpler and a better cause. There is a 
 goodness of heart, which carries the shield 
 of its purity over the open hand of its 
 kindness : and that goodness was her's. 
 
 To my father, she was more, I believe, 
 than he himself ever imagined — or will 
 ever know, unless he should lose her. He 
 was often, in his intercourse with the 
 world, wounded severely enough in his 
 peculiar prejudices and peculiar refinements
 
 84 BASIL. 
 
 — he was always sure to find the first 
 respected, and the last partaken by her. 
 He could trust in her implicitly, he could 
 feel assured that she was not only willing, 
 but able, to share and relieve his domestic 
 troubles and anxieties. If he had been 
 less fretfully anxious about his eldest son ; 
 if he had wisely distrusted from the first, 
 his own powers of persuading and reform- 
 ing ; and had allowed Clara to exercise 
 her influence over Ralph more constantly 
 and more completely than he really did, I 
 am persuaded that the long-expected epoch 
 of my brother's transformation would have 
 really arrived by this time, or even before 
 
 it. 
 
 The strong and deep feelings of my 
 sister's nature lay far below the surface — 
 for a woman, too far below it. Suffering 
 was, for her, silent, secret, long enduring;
 
 BASIL. 85 
 
 often almost entirely void of outward vent 
 
 or development. I never remember seeing 
 
 her in tears except on rare and very 
 
 serious occasions. Unless you looked at 
 
 her narrowly, you would judge her to be 
 
 little sensitive to ordinary griefs and 
 
 troubles. At such times, her eyes only 
 
 grew dimmer and less animated than 
 
 usual; the paleness of her complexion 
 
 became rather more marked; her lips 
 
 closed and trembled involuntarily — but this 
 
 was all : there was no sighing, no weeping, 
 no speaking even. And yet, she suffered 
 
 acutely. The very strength of her emo- 
 tions was in their silence and their secrecy. 
 I, of all others — I, guilty of infecting with 
 my anguish the pure heart that loved me — 
 ought to know this best ! 
 
 How long I might linger over all that 
 she has done for me. As I now approach
 
 86 BASIL. 
 
 nearer and nearer to the pages which are 
 to reveal my fatal story, so I am more 
 and more tempted to delay over those 
 better and purer remembrances of my 
 sister which now occupy my mind. The 
 first little presents — innocent girlish pre- 
 sents — which she secretly sent to me at 
 school; the first sweet days of our uninter- 
 rupted intercourse, when the close of my 
 college life restored me to home ; her first 
 inestimable sympathies with my first fugitive 
 vanities of embryo authorship, are thronging 
 back fast and fondly on my thoughts, while 
 I now write. 
 
 But these memories must be calmed 
 and disciplined. I must be collected and 
 impartial over my narrative — if it be only 
 to make that narrative show fairly and 
 truly, without suppression or exaggeration, 
 all that I have owed to her.
 
 BASIL. 87 
 
 Not merely all that I have owed to 
 her; but all that I owe to her now. 
 Though I may never see her again, but 
 in my thoughts; still she influences, com- 
 forts, cheers me on to hope, as if she were 
 already the guardian spirit of the cottage 
 where I live. Even in my worst moments 
 of despair — even when my trust in God 
 falters — I can still remember that Clara is 
 thinking of me and sorrowing for me : I 
 can still feel that remembrance, as an 
 invisible hand of mercy which supports 
 me, sinking ; which raises me, fallen ; 
 which may yet lead me safely and tenderly 
 to my hard journey's end.
 
 88 BASIL. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I have now completed all the prelimi- 
 nary notices of my near relatives, which it 
 is necessary to present in these pages ; and 
 may proceed at once to the more imme- 
 diate subject of my narrative. 
 
 Imagine to yourself that my father and 
 my sister have been living for some months 
 at our London residence ; and that I have 
 recently joined them, after having enjoyed a 
 short tour on the continent.
 
 BASIL, 89 
 
 My father is engaged in his parliamen- 
 tary duties. We see very little of him. 
 Committees absorb his mornings — debates 
 his evenings. When he has a dav of 
 leisure occasionally, he passes it in his study, 
 devoted to his own affairs. He goes very 
 little into society — a political dinner, or a 
 scientific conversazione are the only social 
 relaxations that tempt him. 
 
 My sister leads a life which is not much 
 in accordance with her simple tastes. She 
 is wearied of balls, operas, flower-shows, 
 and all other London gaieties besides ; and 
 heartily longs to be driving about the green 
 lanes again in her own little poney-chaise, 
 and distributing plum-cake prizes to the 
 good children at the Rector's Infant School. 
 But, the female friend who happens to be 
 staying with her, is fond of excitement; my 
 father expects her to accept the invitations
 
 90 BASIL. 
 
 which he is obliged to decline ; so she gives 
 up her own tastes and inclinations as usual, 
 and goes into hot rooms among crowds of 
 fine people, hearing the same glib compli- 
 ments, and the same polite inquiries, night 
 after night, until, patient as she is, she 
 heartilv wishes that her fashionable friends 
 all lived in some opposite quarter of the 
 globe, the farther away the better. 
 
 Mv arrival from the continent is the most 
 welcome of events to her. It gives a new 
 object and a new impulse to her London 
 life. 
 
 I am engaged in writing a historical 
 romance — indeed, it is principally to ex- 
 amine localities in the country where my 
 story is laid, that I have been abroad. 
 Clara has read the first half-dozen finished 
 chapters, in manuscript, and augurs won- 
 derful success for my fiction when it is
 
 BASIL. 9 1 
 
 published. She is determined to arrange 
 my study with her own hands ; to dust 
 my books and sort my papers herself. She 
 knows that I am already as fretful and 
 precise about my literary goods and chat- 
 tels, as indignant at any interference of 
 housemaids and dusters with my library 
 treasures, as if I were a veteran author 
 of twenty years' standing ; and she is re- 
 solved to spare me every apprehension on 
 this score, by taking all the arrangements 
 of my study on herself, and keeping the 
 key of the door when I am not in need 
 of it. 
 
 Nay, she must do more than this. Where- 
 ever I have marked passages for extract, in 
 books of reference, she volunteers to -make 
 the extracts, so as to leave me all my time 
 for original composition. I am anxious to 
 spare her the task; but she answers laugh-
 
 92 BASIL. 
 
 ingly, that she is determined to go down 
 to posterity with me, and be mentioned as 
 the amanuensis of the illustrious author, 
 when his biography is written for future 
 generations ! 
 
 We have our London amusements, too, 
 as well as our London employments. But 
 the pleasantest of our relaxations are, after 
 all, procured for us by our horses. We 
 ride every day — sometimes with friends, 
 sometimes alone together. On these latter 
 occasions, we generally turn our horses' heads 
 away from the parks, and seek what country 
 sights we can get in the neighbourhood of 
 London. The northern roads are generally 
 our favourite ride. 
 
 Sometimes we penetrate so far, that we 
 can bait our horses at a little inn, which 
 reminds me of the inns near our country 
 home. I see the same sanded parlour, deco-
 
 BASIL. 93 
 
 rated with the same old sporting prints, 
 furnished with the same battered, deep- 
 coloured mahogany table, and polished elm- 
 tree chairs, that I remember in our own 
 village inn. Clara also, finds bits of com- 
 mon, out of doors, that look like our 
 common ; and trees that might have been 
 transplanted expressly for her, from our 
 park. 
 
 These excursions we keep a secret : we 
 like to enjoy them entirely by ourselves. 
 Besides, if my father knew that his daugh- 
 ter was drinking the landlady's fresh milk, 
 and his son the landlord's old ale, in the 
 parlour of a suburban roadside inn, he would, 
 I believe, be apt to suspect that both his 
 children had fairly taken leave of their 
 senses. 
 
 Evening parties I frequent almost as rarely 
 as my father. Clara's good-nature is called
 
 94 BASIL. 
 
 into requisition to do duty for me, as well 
 as for him. She has little respite in the 
 task. Old lady relatives and friends, always 
 ready to take care of her, leave her no 
 excuse for staying at home. Sometimes, 
 I am shamed into accompanying her a 
 little more frequently than usual; but my 
 old indolence in these matters soon pos- 
 sesses me again. I have contracted a bad 
 habit of writing at night — I read almost 
 incessantly in the day-time. It is only 
 because I am fond of riding, that I am 
 ever willing to interrupt my studies, and 
 ever ready to go out at all. 
 
 Such were my domestic habits, such my 
 regular occupations and amusements, when 
 a mere accident changed every purpose of 
 my life, and altered me irretrievably from 
 what I was then, to what I am now. 
 
 It happened thus :
 
 BASIL 95 
 
 VII. 
 
 I had just received my quarter's allow- 
 ance of pocket-money, and had gone into 
 the city to cash the cheque at my father's 
 bankers. 
 
 The money paid, I debated for a mo- 
 ment how I should return homewards. 
 First I thought of walking ; then of taking 
 a cab. While I was considering this fri- 
 volous point, an omnibus passed me, going
 
 96 BASIL. 
 
 westward. In the idle impulse of the 
 moment, I hailed it and got in. 
 
 It was something more than an idle 
 impulse though. If I had at that time no 
 other qualification for the literary career on 
 which I was entering, I certainly had this 
 one — an aptitude for discovering points of 
 character in others : and its natural result, 
 an unfailing delight in studying characters 
 of all kinds, wherever I could meet with 
 them. 
 
 I had often before ridden in omnibuses 
 to amuse myself by observing the pas- 
 sengers. An omnibus has always appeared 
 to me, to be a perambulatory exhibition - 
 room of the eccentricities of human nature. 
 I know not any other sphere in which 
 persons of all classes and all temperaments 
 are so oddly collected together, and so 
 immediately contrasted and confronted with
 
 BASIL. 97 
 
 each other. To watch merely the different 
 methods of getting into the vehicle and 
 taking their seats, adopted by different 
 people, is to study no incomplete com- 
 mentary on the infinitesimal varieties of 
 human character — as various even as the 
 varieties of the human face. Riding in an 
 omnibus was always, to me, like reading for 
 the first time an entertaining book. 
 
 Thus, in addition to the idle impulse, 
 there was the idea of amusement in my 
 thoughts, as I stopped the public vehicle, 
 and added one to the number of the con- 
 ductor's passengers. 
 
 Every event of this day, down to the 
 slightest that occurred — no matter of what 
 kind — is indelibly marked on my memory. 
 I remember perfectly, not only the people 
 I found in the omnibus, but their con- 
 versation also. Both persons and words 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 BASIL. 
 
 seem to my mind fast connected with the 
 whole of a long chain of subsequent circum- 
 stances; and it is with this feeling that I 
 instinctively notice them here. 
 
 There were five passengers in the omni- 
 bus when I entered it. Two middle-aged 
 ladies, dressed with amazing splendour in 
 silks and satins, wearing straw-coloured kid 
 gloves, and carrying highly-scented pocket 
 handkerchiefs, sat apart at the end of the 
 vehicle; trying to look as if they occupied 
 it under protest, and preserving the most 
 stately gravity and silence. They evidently 
 felt that their magnificent outward adorn- 
 ments were exhibited in a very unworthy 
 locality, and among a very uncongenial 
 company. 
 
 One side, close to the door, was occupied 
 by a lean, withered old man, very shabbily 
 dressed in black, who sat eternally mumbling
 
 BASIL. 99 
 
 something between his toothless jaws. Oc- 
 casionally, to the evident disgust of the 
 genteel ladies, he wiped his bald head and 
 wrinkled forehead with a ragged blue cotton 
 handkerchief, which he kept in the crown 
 of his hat. 
 
 Opposite to this ancient, sat a gentleman 
 and a sickly vacant-looking little girl. The 
 gentleman's iron-grey hah' bristled fiercely 
 from under a glossy hat, excessively curled 
 up at the brim. His complexion was sallow ; 
 his eyes were light grey, and his wiry eye- 
 brows and whiskers ink-black. He was 
 excessively talkative, pompous, and dictatorial 
 towards the poor squalid little creature by 
 his side. When I entered the omnibus, 
 he was telling her in a loud voice how she 
 ought to dispose of her frock and her feet 
 when people got into the vehicle and when 
 they got out. Then he impressed on her 
 
 F 2
 
 100 BASIL. 
 
 the necessity, in future life when she grew 
 up, of always having the price of her fare 
 ready before it was wanted, to prevent 
 unnecessary delay. Then he coughed 
 severely — then he looked hard at the two 
 genteel ladies — and then he began to hum, 
 keeping time by drumming with his thick 
 Malacca cane. He was still proceeding 
 with this amusement — producing some of 
 the most acutely unmusical sounds I ever 
 heard — when a loud authoritative shout 
 stopped the omnibus, and another passenger 
 entered. 
 
 He was a tall, strong, active man, dressed 
 in a shooting-jacket, and wearing a felt hat. 
 His face and hands were disfigured by red 
 angry scars ; but his eyes were full of bold 
 good-humour and intelligence. He was 
 evidently disposed to be communicative 
 and companionable ; and addressed me, as
 
 BASIL. 101 
 
 soon as he sat down, with a hearty " Fine 
 morning, Sir !" 
 
 " I differ with you entirely," cried the 
 dictatorial gentleman opposite, before I could 
 answer. " It's not a fine morning, because 
 the sun shines, and the air's cool. It's an 
 east wind — a beastly, pestilential east wind !" 
 
 " Well !" said the new comer, " the east 
 wind don't make any difference to me. I 
 take any wind I can get, without minding 
 which." 
 
 " You ought to mind !" cried the 
 other fiercely ; " you ought to mind 
 particularly ! Those scars on your face 
 must be affected by an east wind — scars 
 always are — if your scars are not, they 
 ought to be !" 
 
 " Ought they ?" returned the man, laugh- 
 ing. " I think I ought to know best. 
 They're scars of my own making !"
 
 102 BASIL. 
 
 The dictatorial gentleman shrank into 
 his corner ; the genteel ladies shrank into 
 theirs ; the withered old man stopped in 
 the very act of wiping his forehead for 
 the fiftieth time, and stared aghast; the 
 sickly little girl looked whiter and more 
 vacant than ever. It was evidently the 
 general impression that the last speaker 
 was an escaped maniac. 
 
 " What did the scars come from ?" I 
 asked, desirous of discovering the truth, 
 whichever way it might lead. 
 
 " Cutting out mad-dogs' bites mostly," 
 was the sententious answer. 
 
 " Good God !" ejaculated the gentleman 
 with the iron-grey hair. 
 
 " Very unusual person to meet with !" 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! Hadn't we better get 
 out ?" whispered the genteel ladies together. 
 
 " No call to get out, Ma'am, because of
 
 BASIL. 103 
 
 me," said the man, with a rough bow and a 
 friendly smile. " I got the bites in the 
 way of business ; and cut 'em out, and 
 cauterized 'em, business-like, with my own 
 hands. They ain't dangerous. If they 
 had been, any one of 'em would have 
 killed me long ago — raving mad." 
 
 "Ah, yes, yes! — I see — I think I see," 
 said the dictatorial gentleman, gradually re- 
 covering himself — " Veterinary surgeon, of 
 course — eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, and seen a deal of practice among 
 horses. I keep a hospital, infirmary, and 
 home for dogs and cats. Advice gratis 
 to poor patients — animals belonging to the 
 poor, you know." 
 
 " Many mad dogs about — eh "?" 
 
 " Not a quarter the number that people 
 think. Many's the fine dog I've been 
 ordered to poison, who was no more mad
 
 104 BASIL. 
 
 than you are. Besides, what's a mad dog ? 
 Nothing when you're used to him." 
 
 " And what's a mad-dog bite — eh ? 
 That's something I should think, whether 
 you're used to it or not !" 
 
 " Yes, something to cut out — with a 
 surgical knife, if you've got it ; with a 
 razor if you hav'nt." 
 
 " Ah, that's a very cool way of talking ! 
 — very cool certainly !" 
 
 "Mind you, I wasn't always as cool as I 
 am now. I recollect once scratching my 
 hand, here, in dissecting a glandered horse ; 
 and though I cut out the flesh, and cau- 
 terized the place directly, I wasn't easy 
 about it for some time. But, p'raps, that 
 was more with thinking about what had hap- 
 pened a little before to my friend Tosh, than 
 about the thing itself." 
 
 " Please, Sir, what happened to Tosh ?"
 
 BASIL. 105 
 
 inquired the withered old man, speaking 
 for the first time, and in very inquisitive 
 deferential tones. 
 
 " No objection to tell you, old gentle- 
 man. You see, poor Tosh was my particular 
 friend — " 
 
 Here the omnibus stopped again, and a 
 light-haired young gentleman jumped in 
 with such extraordinary agility, that he 
 seemed to have been hunted into the vehicle 
 from behind. He fell sprawling into a seat ; 
 and, folding his arms, smiled in imbecile 
 confusion, when he saw that everybody was 
 looking at him. 
 
 "Well," resumed the veterinary surgeon, 
 "as I was saying, when that gent came in 
 in such a hurry," (the " gent's " confusion 
 increased at this special notice) — " poor 
 Tosh was my particular friend. He was 
 learning my business of me. One day we 
 
 F 3
 
 106 BASIL. 
 
 got a glandered horse to dissect : Tosh, while 
 we were about it, scratched his finger with 
 his instrument, and was obliged to give over 
 and go home. ' Tosh,' says I, before he 
 went, 'just let me cut that place out, and 
 cauterize it.' ' No,' says he, ' it's nothing 
 to speak of; a poultice will do.' Next 
 day, he comes to see me, with his ringer all 
 swelled. ' Tosh,' says I again, ' let me 
 take that finger off — do let me take it off, 
 before it's too late — do, old boy!' 'No,' 
 says Tosh, ' I'm going to foment it now.' 
 Two or three days after, I went to see 
 him; his hand and arm were swelled 
 dreadful. ' Tosh,' says I, ' for God's sake, 
 let me take your arm off at the shoulder ? 
 it's your last chance, old fellow ! the poison's 
 got hold of the whole limb — do, Tosh ! do 
 let me ?' No, he would'nt ; he was obsti- 
 nate : he took to his bed. Well, more
 
 BASIL. 107 
 
 days passed — I saw him again — his chest 
 was swelled — his whole body was swelling 
 — terrible pains got a hold of him. The 
 poisonous infection from the glandered 
 horse had got from his finger to his 
 vitals ; I knew that he must die ; and I 
 knew too, that he would die rotted awav 
 piecemeal by the disease. I was fonder of 
 Tosh than I was of anybody ; so when 
 we were alone in the room, I said to 
 him, says I : ' Tosh, you can't live — 
 nothing can save you now — the only thing 
 to do is to spare you as much torment as 
 possible — let me give you a dose of prussic 
 acid, and put you out of your misery — I'll 
 run the risk, because you're my friend.' 
 'No,' says Tosh, 'I wont have that guilt 
 on my soul. Good-bye — good-bye for 
 ever; and God bless you/ He could'nt 
 say any more — the pains took him worse
 
 108 BASIL. 
 
 than ever, while he was speaking — and he 
 died soon afterwards — died horribly — worse 
 to look at than I should like to tell you, 
 gentlemen ; specially before these ladies. 
 Stop ! Hullo ! There's one of my patients 
 for sale in a dog-stealer's arms ! Good- 
 morning, ladies and gentlemen ; I must 
 look after this ! Hold hard there ! hold 
 hard !" 
 
 He got out in an instant. We just saw 
 him, as the omnibus moved away, affecting 
 to make a bargain with the dog-stealer, 
 while he was coolly assuring himself of 
 the identity of his " patient." 
 
 His story provoked some pretty strong 
 remarks on his character, from the dicta- 
 torial gentleman, as the vehicle was driven 
 on. To me, the latter part of it afforded 
 an extraordinary instance of the influence 
 of the occupation on the individual. This
 
 BASIL. 109 
 
 veterinary surgeon was evidently a very kind- 
 hearted man, whose life had only led him 
 to sow the seeds of his kindness in the 
 low places of creation. He had released 
 hundreds of dogs from torment, by the 
 fatal mercy of a few drops of poison ; and 
 in pure pity, so he w T ould have released from 
 torment the man who was his greatest 
 friend. His humanity might be ignorant 
 enough — but was it the less humanity, in 
 him, on that account ? My fellow-pas- 
 sengers said, Yes, very much less. I dif- 
 fered with them. 
 
 Once more the omnibus stopped, to give 
 admission to two ladies. The first who got 
 in was an elderly person — mild-looking and 
 pale — evidently in delicate health. The 
 second was a young girl.
 
 110 BASIL. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Among the workings of the hidden 
 life within us which we may experience 
 but cannot explain, are there any more 
 remarkable than those mysterious moral 
 influences constantly exercised, either for 
 attraction or repulsion, by one human 
 being over another ? In the simplest, 
 as in the most important affairs of life, 
 how startling, how irresistible is their
 
 BASIL. 1 1 1 
 
 power ! How often we feel and know, 
 either pleasurably or painfully, that another 
 is looking on us, before we have ascertained 
 the fact with our own eyes ! How often 
 we prophecy truly to ourselves the approach 
 of friend or enemy just before either 
 have really appeared ! How strangely and 
 abruptly we become convinced, at a first 
 introduction, that we shall secretlv love 
 this person and loathe that, before ex- 
 perience has guided us with a single fact 
 in relation to their characters. 
 
 Are these invisible, inexplicable influ- 
 ences, constantly interchanged between us, 
 earthly foretastes of that perfect spiritual 
 communion which we are to enjoy in 
 another world ? Do they still continue 
 between the spirits that are departed and 
 the spirits that are here — acting in what 
 we call our presentiments of events to
 
 1 1 2 BASIL. 
 
 come; in our dreams of the dead; and 
 in those worse dreams, those fantastic 
 horrors of sleep, which image to us the 
 living whom we love, as lifeless already — 
 nay, even ourselves, as cold and forgotten 
 in the tomb? Are these the awful influ- 
 ences of the dead on the living — reaching 
 us numbed and shrunken through the 
 atmosphere of the grave — but still existing 
 as they once existed between the living 
 alone ? 
 
 Who shall determine ? We can merely 
 feel that there are mysterious spiritual 
 communications constantly passing and re- 
 passing between us in this life, and 
 sometimes reaching to us even from the 
 far land of the other. When the influences 
 they produce tend towards the better 
 affections ; and so tending, are mutually 
 partaken ; then, spring forth those perfectest
 
 BASIL. 113 
 
 mortal loves, which ever preserve their 
 mysteries safe from the eye of the world. 
 Then occur those marriages and those 
 friendships, which the world cannot explain. 
 Then is displayed that instinct — in its 
 quickness almost approaching an inspiration 
 — by which a man and a woman recognize 
 in each other, when they come together, 
 qualities which their oldest friends and 
 dearest relatives have not, and cannot find 
 out — hidden beauties, which are not the 
 world's beauties — hidden virtues, which, 
 to the world, have been and will be for 
 ever veiled. 
 
 I have said that the two additional 
 passengers who entered the vehicle in which 
 I was riding, were, one of them, an elderly 
 lady ; the other, a young girl. As soon 
 as the latter had seated herself nearly 
 opposite to me, by her companion's side,
 
 114 BASIL. 
 
 I felt her influence on me directly — an 
 influence that I cannot describe — an influ- 
 ence which I had never experienced in 
 my life before, which I shall never expe- 
 rience again. 
 
 I had helped to hand her in, as she 
 passed me; merely touching her arm for 
 a moment. But how the sense of that 
 touch w T as prolonged ! I felt it thrilling 
 through me — thrilling in every nerve, in 
 every pulsation of my fast- throbbing 
 heart. 
 
 It seemed as if I must have known 
 her in some former state of being — as if 
 I had died for her, or she for me, after 
 living for each other and with each other 
 in some past world ; and that we were 
 now revived and reunited again, for a new 
 life in a new earth. But, I repeat it, I 
 cannot describe to others, except by
 
 BASIL. 115 
 
 phrases which must read like meaningless 
 rhapsody, the mysterious attraction which 
 drew me to her, heart and soul, the 
 moment she appeared before my eyes. 
 
 Had I the same influence over her ? 
 Or was it I that received, and she that 
 conferred, only? 1 was yet destined to 
 discover; but not then — not for a long, 
 long time. 
 
 Her veil was down when I first saw 
 her. Her features and her expression were 
 but indistinctly visible to me. I could just 
 vaguely perceive that she was young and 
 beautiful ; but, beyond this, though I 
 might imagine much, I could see little. 
 
 From the time when she entered the 
 omnibus, I have no recollection of any- 
 thing more that occurred in it. I neither 
 remember what passengers got out, or 
 what passengers got in. I know not
 
 ] 1 6 BASIL. 
 
 whether the conversation, which had 
 
 flagged when the veterinary surgeon left 
 
 us, was resumed, or whether it was 
 
 entirely discontinued. My powers of 
 
 observation, hitherto active enough, had 
 
 now wholly deserted me. Strange ! that 
 
 the capricious rule of chance should sway 
 
 the action of our faculties ! — that a trifle 
 
 should set in motion the whole mysterious, 
 
 complicated machinery of their exercise, and 
 
 a trifle suspend it. 
 
 We had been moving onward for some 
 
 little time, when the girl's companion 
 
 addressed an observation to her. She 
 
 heard it imperfectly, and lifted her veil 
 
 while it was being repeated. How painfully 
 my heart beat ! I could almost hear it — 
 
 as her face was, for the first time, freely 
 
 and fairly disclosed ! 
 
 She was dark. Her hair, eyes, and
 
 BASIL. 117 
 
 complexion were darker than usual in 
 Englishwomen. The form, the look al- 
 together, of her face, coupled with what 
 I could see of her figure, made me guess 
 her age to be about twenty. There was 
 the appearance of maturity already in the 
 shape of her features ; but their expression 
 still remained girlish, unformed, unsettled. 
 The fire in her large dark eyes, when she 
 spoke, was latent. Their langour, when 
 she was silent — that voluptuous langour of 
 black eyes ! — was still fugitive and un- 
 steady. The smile about her full lips (to 
 other eyes, they might have looked too 
 full), struggled to be eloquent, yet dared 
 not. Among women, there always seems 
 something left incomplete — a moral creation 
 to be superinduced on the physical — which 
 love alone can develope, and which mater- 
 nity perfects still further, when developed.
 
 118 BASIL. 
 
 I thought, as I looked on her, how the 
 passing colour would fix itself brilliantly on 
 her round, olive cheek; how the expression 
 that still hesitated to declare itself, would 
 speak out at last, would shine forth in 
 the full luxury of its beauty, when she 
 heard the first words, received the first 
 kiss from the man she loved ! 
 
 While I still looked on her, as she sat 
 opposite speaking to her companion, our 
 eyes met. It was only for a moment — ■ 
 but the sensation of a moment often 
 makes the thought of a life ; and that 
 one little instant made the new life of my 
 heart. She put down her veil again im- 
 mediately ; her lips moved involuntarily as 
 she lowered it : I thought I could see, 
 through the lace, that the slight movement 
 ripened to a smile. 
 
 Still there was enough left to look
 
 BASIL. 1 1 9 
 
 on — enough to charm. There was the 
 little rim of delicate white lace, encircling 
 the lovelv, duskv throat ; there was the 
 figure visible, where the shawl had fallen 
 open, slender, but already well developed 
 in its slenderness, and exquisitely supple; 
 there was the waist, naturally low, and 
 left to its natural place and natural size; 
 there were the little millinery and jewellery 
 ornaments that she wore — simple and 
 common-place enough in themselves — yet 
 each a beauty, each a treasure, on her. 
 There was all this to behold, all this to 
 dwell on, in spite of the veil. The veil ! 
 how little of the woman does it hide, 
 when the man really loves her ! 
 
 We had nearly arrived at the last point 
 to which the omnibus would take us, when 
 she and her companion got out. I followed 
 them, cautiously and at some distance.
 
 120 BASIL. 
 
 She was tall — tall at least for a woman. 
 There were not many people in the road 
 along which we were proceeding; hut even 
 if there had been, far behind as I was 
 walking, I should never have lost her — 
 never have mistaken any one else for her. 
 Already, strangers though we were, I felt 
 that I should know her, almost at any 
 distance, only by her walk. 
 
 They went on, until we reached a 
 suburb of new houses, intermingled with 
 wretched patches of waste land, half built 
 over. Unfinished streets, unfinished cres- 
 cents, unfinished squares, unfinished shops, 
 unfinished gardens, surrounded us. At 
 last they stopped at a new square, and 
 rang the bell of one of the newest of the 
 new houses. The door opened, and she 
 and her companion disappeared. The house 
 was partly detached. It bore no number;
 
 BASIL. 121 
 
 but was distinguished as " North Villa." 
 The square — unfinished like everything else 
 in the neighbourhood — was called " Holly- 
 oake Square." 
 
 I noticed nothing else about the place 
 at that time. Its newness and desolate- 
 ness of appearance revolted me, just then. 
 I had satisfied myself about the locality 
 of the house, and I knew that it was her 
 home ; for I had approached sufficiently 
 near, when the door was opened, to hear 
 her enquire if anybody had called in her 
 absence. For the present, this was enough. 
 My sensations wanted repose; my thoughts 
 wanted collecting. I left Hollyoake Square 
 at once, and walked into the Regent's Park, 
 the northern portion of which was close at 
 hand. 
 
 Was I in love? — really, truly in love 
 with a girl whom I had accidentally met 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 BASIL. 
 
 in an omnibus? Or, was I merely indulg- 
 ing a momentary caprice — merely feeling 
 a young man's hot, hasty admiration for 
 a beautiful face ? These were questions 
 which I could not then decide. My ideas 
 were in utter confusion — all my thoughts 
 ran astray. I walked on, dreaming in full 
 day — I had no distinct impressions, except 
 of the stranger beauty whom I had just 
 seen. The more I tried to collect myself, 
 to resume the easy, equable feelings with 
 which I had set forth in the morning, the 
 less self-possessed I became. There are two 
 emergencies in which the wisest man may 
 try to reason himself back from impulse to 
 principle ; and try in vain : — the one when 
 a woman has attracted him for the first 
 time: the other, when, for the first time, 
 also, she has happened to offend him. 
 
 I know not how long I had been walking
 
 BASIL. 123 
 
 in the park, thus absorbed yet not thinking, 
 when the clock of a neighbouring church 
 struck three, and roused me to the remem- 
 brance that I had engaged to ride out 
 with my sister, at two o'clock. It would 
 be nearlv half-an-hour more before I could 
 reach home. Never had any former ap- 
 pointment of mine with Clara been thus 
 forgotten ! Love had not yet turned me 
 selfish, as it turns all men, and even all 
 women, more or less. I felt both sorrow 
 and shame at the neglect of which I had 
 been guiltv ; and hastened homeward. 
 
 The groom, looking unutterablv weary 
 
 O * O . t/ 
 
 and discontented, was still leading my horse 
 up and down before the house. My sister's 
 horse had been sent back to the stables. I 
 went in ; and heard that, after waiting for 
 me an hour, Clara had gone out with some 
 friends, and would not be back before dinner. 
 
 G 2
 
 124 BASIL. 
 
 No one was in the house but the ser- 
 vants. The place looked dull, empty, 
 inexpressibly miserable to me ; the distant 
 roll of carriages along the surrounding 
 streets had a heavy boding sound ; the 
 opening and shutting of doors in the do- 
 mestic offices below, startled and irritated 
 me ; the London air seemed denser to 
 breathe than it had ever seemed before. 
 I walked up and down one of the rooms, 
 fretful and irresolute. Once I directed my 
 steps towards my study ; but retraced them 
 before I had entered it. Reading or writing 
 was out of the question at that moment. 
 
 I felt the secret inclination strengthen- 
 ing within me, to return to Hollyoake 
 Square ; to try to see the girl again, or at 
 least to ascertain who she was. I strove 
 — yes, I can honestly say, strove — to re- 
 press the desire. I tried to laugh it off,
 
 BASIL. 125 
 
 as idle and ridiculous ; tc think of my sister, 
 of the book I was writing, of anything but 
 the one subject that pressed stronger and 
 stronger on me, the harder I struggled 
 against it. It would not do — the spell of 
 the syren was over me. I went out, 
 hypocritically persuading myself, that I was 
 only animated by an obstinate whim, a 
 capricious curiosity to know the girl's name, 
 which once satisfied, would leave me at rest 
 on the matter, and free to laugh at my 
 own idleness and folly as soon as I got home 
 ao-ain. 
 
 I arrived at the house. The blinds were 
 all drawn down over the front windows, 
 to keep out the sun. The little slip of 
 garden was left solitary — baking and crack- 
 ing in the heat. The square was silent ; 
 desolately silent, as only a suburban square 
 can be. I walked up and down the glaring
 
 126 BASIL. 
 
 pavement, resolved to find out her name 
 before I quitted the place. While still 
 undecided how to act, a shrill whistling — 
 sounding doubly shrill in the silence around 
 — made me look up. 
 
 A tradesman's boy — one of those town 
 Pucks of the highway ; one of those in- 
 carnations of precocious cunning, inveterate 
 mischief, and impudent humour, which great 
 cities only can produce — was approaching me 
 with his empty tray under his arm. I 
 called to him to come and speak to me. 
 He evidently belonged to the neighbour- 
 hood, and might be made of some use. 
 
 His first careless, slang answers to my 
 inquiries, showed that his master served 
 the household at North Villa. A present 
 of a shilling secured his attention at once 
 to the few questions of any importance 
 which I desired to put to him. I learned
 
 BASIL. 1*27 
 
 from his replies, that the name of the master 
 of the house was " Sherwin ;" and that 
 the family only consisted of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Sherwin, and the young lady, their 
 daughter. 
 
 My last inquiry addressed to the boy was 
 the most important of all. Did he know 
 what Mr. Sherwin's profession, or employ- 
 ment, was ? 
 
 His answer startled me into perfect 
 silence. Mr. Sherwin kept a large linen- 
 draper's shop in Street ! The boy 
 
 mentioned the number, and the side of the 
 way on which the house stood — then asked 
 me if I wanted to know anything more. 
 I was not able to speak to him ; I could 
 only tell him by a sign, that he might 
 leave me, and that I had heard enough. 
 
 Enough ? If he had spoken the truth, 
 I had heard toe much !
 
 1 28 BASIL. 
 
 A linen-draper's shop — a linen-draper's 
 daughter ! Was I still in love ? — I thought 
 of my father ; I thought of the name I bore ; 
 and this time, though I might have an- 
 swered the question, I dared not. 
 
 But the boy might be wrong. Perhaps, 
 in mere mischief, he had been deceiving 
 me throughout. I determined to seek the 
 address he had mentioned, and ascertain 
 the truth for myself. 
 
 I reached the place : there was the shop, 
 and there the name, " Sherwin," over the 
 door. One chance still remained. This 
 Sherwin, and the Sherwin of Hollyoake 
 Square, might not be the same. 
 
 I went in and purchased something. 
 While the man w T as tying up the parcel, I 
 asked him whether his master lived in Holly- 
 oake Square. Looking a little astonished at 
 the question, he answered in the affirmative.
 
 BASIL. 129 
 
 " There was a Mr. Sherwin I once 
 knew," said I, forging in those words the 
 first link of the long chain of deceit, which 
 was afterwards to fetter and degrade me 
 — " a Mr. Sherwin who is now, as I have 
 heard, living somewhere in the Hollvoake 
 Square neighbourhood. He was a batchelor 
 — I don't know whether my friend and your 
 master are the same ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no, Sir ! My master is a 
 married man, and has one daughter — Miss 
 Margaret — who is reckoned a verv fine 
 young lady, Sir 1" And the man grinned 
 as he spoke — a grin that sickened and 
 shocked me. 
 
 I was answered at last : I had discovered 
 all. Margaret ! — I had heard her name, 
 too. Margaret ! — it had never hitherto been 
 a favourite name with me. Now I felt a 
 sort of terror, as I detected myself repeating 
 
 G 3
 
 130 BASIL. 
 
 it, and finding a new, unimagined poetry in 
 the sound. 
 
 Could this be love ? — pure, first love ? 
 — marriage-love for a shopkeeper's daughter, 
 whom I had seen for a quarter of an hour 
 in an omnibus, and followed home for 
 another quarter of an hour? The thing 
 was preposterous, impossible. And yet, I 
 felt a strange unwillingness to go back to 
 our house, and see my father and sister, 
 just at that moment. 
 
 I was still walking onward slowly, but 
 not in the direction of home, when I met 
 an old college friend of my brother's, 
 and an acquaintance of mine — a reckless, 
 good-humoured, convivial fellow. He greeted 
 me at once, with uproarious cordiality. I 
 was to come along directly, and dine with 
 him at his club ; where I should drink 
 glorious Burgundy, and eat dishes made
 
 BASIL. 131 
 
 by a first-rate cook ! He wanted to have 
 a good laugh with me about Ralph, and 
 Ralph's new, middle-aged mistress, who had 
 undertaken to keep him in order. It was 
 such a joke, that ! A regular subject for a 
 new pantomime ! — Harlequin Don Juan 
 jumping into all sorts of scrapes as usual, 
 and Madame Columbine Morality always at 
 his heels, dancing a grand pas de decorum 
 to keep him out of mischief ! — Oh, yes ! 
 I must come ! — only think of the Bur- 
 gundy and the fun about Ralph ! — oh, 
 come along ! — come along ! 
 
 If the thoughts that still hung heavy on 
 my mind were only the morbid, fanciful 
 thoughts of the hour, here was a man 
 whose society would dissipate them. I 
 resolved to try the experiment, and accepted 
 his invitation. 
 
 At dinner, I tried hard to rival him in
 
 132 BASIL. 
 
 jest and joviality ; I drank much more 
 than my usual quantity of wine — hut it 
 was useless. The gay words came fainting 
 from my heart, and fell dead on my lips. 
 The Burgundy fevered, but did not ex- 
 hilirate me. Still the image of the dark 
 beauty of the morning was the one reigning 
 image of my thoughts — still, the influence 
 of the morning, at once sinister and 
 seductive, kept its hold on my heart. 
 
 I gave up the struggle. I longed to 
 be alone again. My friend soon found 
 that my forced spirits were flagging; he 
 tried to rouse me, tried to talk for two, 
 ordered more wine ; but everything failed. 
 Yawning at last, in undisguised despair, 
 he suggested a visit to the theatre. 
 
 I excused myself — professed illness- 
 hinted that the wine had been too much 
 for me. He laughed, with something of
 
 BASIL. 133 
 
 contempt as well as good-nature in the 
 laugh ; and went away to the play by 
 himself, evidently feeling that I was still 
 as bad a companion as he had found me 
 at college, years ago. 
 
 As soon as we parted, I felt a relief — 
 almost a joy. I hesitated ; walked back- 
 wards and forwards a few paces, in the 
 street ; and then, silencing all doubts, leav- 
 ing my inclinations to guide me as they 
 would — I turned my steps for the third time 
 in that one day to Hollyoake Square. 
 
 The fair summer evening was tending 
 towards twilight ; the sun stood fiery and 
 low in a cloudless horizon ; the last loveli- 
 ness of the last, quietest daylight hour 
 was fading on the violet sky, as I entered 
 the square. 
 
 T approached the house. She was at 
 the window — it was thrown wide open.
 
 134 BASIL. 
 
 A bird-cage hung rather high up, against 
 the shutter-pannel. She was standing 
 opposite to it, making a plaything for 
 the poor captive canary of a piece of sugar, 
 which she rapidly offered and drew hack 
 again, now at one bar of the cage, and 
 now at another. The bird hopped and 
 fluttered up and down in his prison after 
 the sugar, chirping as if he enjoyed 
 playing his part of the game with his 
 mistress. How lovely she looked ! Her 
 dark hair, drawn back over each cheek so 
 as just to leave the lower part of the ear 
 visible, was gathered up into a thick simple 
 knot behind, without ornament of any sort. 
 She wore a plain white dress, fastening 
 round the neck, and descending over the 
 bosom in numberless little wavy plaits. 
 The cage hung just high enough to oblige 
 her to look up to it. She was laughing
 
 BASIL. 135 
 
 with all the glee of a child ; darting the 
 piece of sugar about incessantly from place 
 to place. Every moment, her head and 
 neck assumed some new and lovely turn 
 — every moment her figure naturally fell 
 into the position which showed its pliant 
 symmetry best. The last-left glow of the 
 evening atmosphere was shining on her — 
 the farewell pause of daylight over the 
 kindred daylight of beauty and youth ! 
 
 I kept myself concealed behind a pillar 
 of the garden-gate : I looked, hardly- 
 daring either to move or breathe ; for I 
 feared that if she saw or heard me, she 
 would leave the window. After a lapse of 
 some minutes, the canary touched the sugar 
 with his beak. 
 
 " There, Minnie !" she cried, laugh- 
 ingly, " you have caught the runaway sugar, 
 and now you shall keep it !"
 
 136 BASIL. 
 
 For a moment more, she stood quietly 
 looking at the cage ; then, raising herself 
 on tip -toe, pouted her lips caressingly to 
 the bird, and disappeared in the interior 
 of the room. 
 
 The sun went down ; the twilight 
 shadows fell over the dreary square; the 
 gas lamps were lighted far and near ; people 
 who had been out for a breath of fresh air 
 in the fields, came straggling past me by 
 ones and twos, on their way home — and 
 still I lingered near the house, hoping she 
 might come to the window again; but she 
 did not re-appear. At last, a servant 
 brought candles into the room, and drew 
 down the Venetian blinds. Knowing it 
 would be useless to stay longer, I left the 
 square. 
 
 I walked homeward joyfully. That 
 second sight of her completed what the
 
 BASIL. 137 
 
 first meeting had begun. The impressions 
 left by it made me insensible for the time 
 to all boding reflections, careless of exer- 
 cising the smallest self-restraint. I gave 
 myself up to the charm that was at work 
 on me. I thought not of consequences 
 now, as I had thought of them in the 
 morning. Prudence, duty, memories and 
 prejudices of home, were all absorbed and 
 forgotten in love — love that I encouraged, 
 that I dwelt over in the first reckless luxury 
 of a new sensation. 
 
 I entered our house, thinking of nothing 
 but how to see her, how to speak to her, 
 on the moiTow ; murmuring her name .to 
 myself, even while my hand was on the 
 lock of my study-door. The instant I was 
 in the room, I involuntarily shuddered and 
 stopped speechless. Clara was there ! I 
 was not merely startled ; a cold, faint sen-
 
 1 38 BASIL. 
 
 sation came over me. My first look at my 
 sister made me feel as if I had been 
 detected in a crime. 
 
 She was standing at my writing-table, 
 and had just finished stringing together 
 the loose pages of my manuscript, which 
 had hitherto laid disconnectedly in a drawer. 
 There was a grand ball somewhere, to which 
 she was going that night. The dress she 
 wore was of pale blue crape (my father's 
 favourite colour, on her). One white flower 
 was placed in her light brown hair. She 
 stood within the soft steady light of my 
 reading lamp, looking up towards the door 
 from the leaves she had just tied to- 
 gether. Her slight figure appeared slighter 
 than usual, in the delicate material that 
 now clothed it. Her complexion was at its 
 palest : her face looked almost statue-like 
 in its purity and repose. What a con-
 
 BASIL. 139 
 
 trast to the other living picture which I had 
 seen at sunset ! 
 
 The remembrance of the engagement 
 that I had broken came back on me 
 avengingly, as she smiled, and held my 
 manuscript up before me to look at. 
 With that remembrance there returned, 
 too — darker than ever — the ominous doubts 
 which had depressed me but a few hours 
 since. I tried to steady my voice, and felt 
 how I failed in the effort, as I spoke to 
 her: 
 
 " Will you forgive me, Clara, for having 
 deprived you of your ride to-day? I am 
 afraid I have but a bad excuse — " 
 
 " Then don't make it, Basil ; or wait 
 till papa can arrange it for you, in a proper 
 parliamentary way, when he comes back 
 from the House of Commons to-night. See 
 how 7 I have been meddling with your papers ;
 
 140 BASIL. 
 
 but they were in such confusion, I was really 
 afraid some of these leaves might have been 
 
 lost," 
 
 " Neither the leaves nor the writer deserve 
 half the pains you have taken with them ; 
 but I am really sorry for breaking our en- 
 gagement. I met an old college friend — 
 there was business too in the morning — 
 we dined together — he would take no de- 
 nial." 
 
 " Basil, how pale you look ! Are you 
 ill?" 
 
 " No ; the heat has been a little too much 
 for me — nothing more." 
 
 " Has anything happened ? At least, I 
 only ask, because if I can be of any use — 
 if you want me to stay at home — " 
 
 " Certainly not, love. I wish you all suc- 
 cess and pleasure at the ball." 
 
 For a moment she did not speak; but
 
 BASIL. 141 
 
 fixed her clear, kind eyes on me more 
 gravely and anxiously than usual. Was 
 she searching my heart, and discovering the 
 new love rising, an usurper already, in the 
 place where the love of her had reigned 
 before ? 
 
 Love ! love for a shopkeeper's daughter ! 
 That thought came again, as she looked at 
 me ; and, strangely mingled with it, a 
 maxim I had often heard my father repeat 
 to Ralph — " Never forget that your station 
 is not yours, to do as you like with. It 
 belongs to us, and belongs to your children. 
 You must keep it for them, as I have kept 
 it for you." 
 
 " I thought," resumed Clara, in rather 
 lower tones than before, " that I would just 
 look into your room, before I went to the 
 ball, and see that everything was properly 
 arranged for you, in case you had any idea
 
 ] 4 2 BASIL. 
 
 of writing to-night ; I had just time to do 
 
 this, while Mrs. , who is going with 
 
 me, was upstairs altering her toilette. But, 
 perhaps, you don't feel inclined to write ?" 
 
 " I will try, at least." 
 
 " Can I do anything more ? Would you 
 like my nosegay left in the room ? — the 
 flowers smell so fresh ! I can easily get 
 another. Look at the roses, my favourite 
 white roses, that always remind me of my 
 own garden at the dear old Park !" 
 
 " Thank you, Clara ; but I think the 
 nosegay is fitter for your hand than my 
 table." 
 
 " Good night, Basil." 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 She walked to the door, then turned 
 round, and smiled as if she were about 
 to speak again ; but checked herself, and 
 merely looked at me for an instant. In
 
 BASIL. 143 
 
 that instant, however, the smile left her face, 
 and the grave anxious expression came again. 
 She went out softly. A few minutes after- 
 wards, the roll of the carriage which took 
 her and her companion to the ball, died 
 away heavily on my ear. I was left alone 
 in the house — alone for the night,
 
 144 BASIL. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My manuscript lay before me, set in 
 order by Clara's careful hand. I slowly 
 turned over the leaves, one by one ; but 
 my eye only fell mechanically on the writing. 
 Yet one day since, and how much ambi- 
 tion, how much hope, how many of my 
 heart's dearest sensations and my mind's 
 highest thoughts dwelt in those poor paper 
 leaves, in those little crabbed marks of pen
 
 BASIL. 145 
 
 and ink ! Now, I could look on them 
 indifferently — almost as a stranger would 
 have looked. The days of calm study, of 
 steady toil of thought, seemed departed for 
 ever. Stirring ideas ; store of knowledge 
 patiently heaped up ; visions of better sights 
 than this world can show ; new creations 
 of the mind, falling freshly and sunnily over 
 the pages of my first book ; all these were 
 past and gone — withered up by the hot 
 breath of the senses — doomed by a paltry 
 fate, whose germ was the accident of an 
 idle day ! 
 
 I hastily put the manuscript aside. My 
 unexpected interview with Clara had calmed 
 the turbulent sensations of the evening ; but 
 the fatal influence of the dark beauty re- 
 mained with me still. How could I 
 write ? 
 
 I sat down at the open window. It was 
 VOL. i. H
 
 146 BASIL. 
 
 at the back of the house ; and looked out 
 on a strip of garden — London garden — a 
 close-shut dungeon for nature, where stunted 
 trees and drooping flowers seemed visibly 
 pining for the free air and sunlight of the 
 country, in their sooty atmosphere, amid 
 their prison of high brick walls. But the 
 place gave room for the air to blow in it, 
 and distanced the tumult of the busy streets. 
 The moon was up, shrined round tenderly 
 by a little border-work of pale yellow light. 
 Elsewhere, the awful void of night was star- 
 less ; the dark lustre of space shone with- 
 out a cloud. 
 
 A presentiment arose within me, that in 
 this still and solitary hour would occur my 
 decisive, my final struggle with myself. I felt 
 that my heart's life or death was set on the 
 hazard of the night. The crisis grew more 
 and more visible, the closer it was at hand.
 
 BASIL. 147 
 
 This new love that was in me; this giant 
 sensation of a day's growth, was first love. 
 Hitherto, I had been heart-whole. I had 
 known nothing of the passion, which is the 
 absorbing passion of life. No woman had 
 ever before stood between me and my 
 ambitions, my occupations, my amusements. 
 No woman had ever before inspired me 
 with the sensations which I now felt. 
 
 In trying to realize my position, there 
 was this one question to consider : was I still 
 strong enough to resist the temptation which 
 accident had thrown in my way? I had 
 this one incentive to resistance : the con- 
 viction that, if I succumbed, as far as my 
 family prospects were concerned, I should be 
 a ruined man. 
 
 I knew my father's character well : I 
 knew how far his affections and his sym- 
 pathies might prevail over his prejudices — 
 
 h 2
 
 148 BASIL. 
 
 even over his principles — in some peculiar 
 cases; and this very knowledge convinced 
 me that , the consequences of a degrading 
 marriage contracted by his son (degrading 
 in regard to rank), would be terrible: 
 fatal to one, perhaps to both. Every other 
 irregularity — every other offence even — 
 he might sooner or later forgive. This 
 irregularity, this offence, never — never, 
 though his heart broke in the struggle. 
 I was as sure of it, as I was of my own 
 existence at that moment. 
 
 What were my real feelings for Mar- 
 garet ? (I still continued to think of her 
 by her Christian name !) I tried to analyze 
 them, to argue on them with myself. It 
 was useless — impossible. The eye of reason 
 reaches neither to the height nor to the depth 
 of the higher and deeper emotions. Try 
 to estimate them in all their strength, in
 
 BASIL. 149 
 
 all their duration : you are trying to calcu- 
 late the incalculable: you are building a 
 new Babel which is to reach from earth to 
 heaven. 
 
 I loved her ! All that I felt, all that I 
 knew, was summed up in those few words ! 
 Deteriorating as my passion was in its 
 effect on the exercise of my mental powers, 
 and on my candour and sense of duty in 
 my intercourse with home, it was a pure 
 feeling towards her. This is truth. If I lay 
 on my death-bed, at the present moment ; 
 and knew that, at the Judgment Day, I 
 should be tried by the truth or falsehood of 
 the lines just written, I could say with my 
 last breath : So be it ; let them remain. 
 
 But what mattered my love for her? 
 However w T orthy of it she might be, I had 
 misplaced it, because chance — the same 
 chance which might have given her station
 
 150 BASIL. 
 
 and family — had placed her in a rank of 
 life, far — too far — below mine. As the 
 daughter of a " gentleman", my father's 
 welcome, my father's affection, would have 
 been bestowed on her, when I took her 
 home as my wife. As the daughter of a 
 tradesman, my father's wrath, my father's 
 misery, my own ruin perhaps besides, 
 would be the fatal dower that a mar- 
 riage would confer on her. What made 
 all this difference ? A social prejudice. 
 Yes: but a prejudice which had been a 
 principle — nay more, a religion — in our 
 house, since my birth ; aye, and for centuries 
 before it. 
 
 (How strange that foresight of love which 
 precipitates the future into the present ! 
 Here was I thinking of her as my wife, 
 before perhaps she had a suspicion of the 
 passion with which she had inspired me —
 
 BASIL. 151 
 
 vexing my heart, wearying my thoughts, 
 before I had ever spoken to her, as if the 
 perilous discovery of our marriage were 
 already at hand ! I have thought since 
 how unnatural I should have considered 
 this, if I had read it in a book.) 
 
 How could I best crush the desire to 
 see her, to speak to her, on the morrow ? 
 Should I leave London, leave England, 
 fly from the temptation, no matter where, 
 or at what sacrifice ? Or should I take 
 refuge in my books — the calm, changeless 
 old friends of my earliest fireside hours ? 
 Had I resolution enough to wear my heart 
 out by hard, serious, slaving study ? If I 
 left London on the morrow, could I feel 
 secure, in my own conscience, that I should 
 not return the day after ? 
 
 While, throughout the hours of the night, 
 I was thus vainly striving to hold calm
 
 152 BASIL. 
 
 counsel with myself, the hase thought 
 never occurred to me, which might have 
 occurred to some other men, in my 
 position : Why marry the girl, because I 
 love her ? Why, with my money, my 
 station, my opportunities, obstinately con- 
 nect love and marriage as one idea; and 
 make a dilemma and a danger where 
 neither need exist ? Had such a thought 
 as this, in the faintest, the most shadowy 
 form, crossed my mind, I should have 
 shrunk from it, have shrunk from myself, 
 with loathing and horror. Whatever fresh 
 degradations may be yet in store for me, 
 this one consoling and sanctifying remem- 
 brance must still be mine. My love for 
 Margaret Sherwin was worthy to be offered 
 to the purest and perfectest woman that 
 ever God created. 
 
 The night advanced — the noises faintly
 
 BASIL. 153 
 
 reaching me from the streets, lulled and 
 ceased — my lamp flickered and went out 
 — I heard the carriage return with Clara 
 from the ball — the first cold clouds of 
 day rose and hid the waning orb of the 
 moon — the air was cooled with its morn- 
 ing freshness : the earth was purified with 
 its morning dew — and still I sat by my 
 open window, striving with my burning 
 love-thoughts of Margaret ; striving to think 
 collectedly and usefully — abandoned to a 
 struggle ever renewing, yet never changing ; 
 and always, hour after hour, a struggle in 
 vain. 
 
 At last I grew wearied under my long 
 vigil — I began to think less and less dis- 
 tinctly — a few moments more, and I sank 
 into a restless feverish slumber. Then 
 began another, and a more perilous ordeal 
 for me — the ordeal of dreams. Thoughts 
 
 H 3
 
 
 154 BASIL. 
 
 and sensations which had been more and 
 more weakly restrained with each succeed- 
 ing hour of wakefulness, now rioted within 
 me in perfect liberation from all control. 
 
 This is what I dreamed : 
 
 I stood on a wide plain. On one 
 side, it was bounded by thick woods, 
 whose dark secret depths looked unfathom- 
 able to the eye: on the other, by hills, ever 
 rising higher and higher yet, until they 
 were lost in bright, beautifully white clouds, 
 gleaming in refulgent sunlight. On the 
 side above the woods, the sky was dark 
 and vaporous. It seemed as if some thick 
 exhalation had arisen from beneath the 
 trees, and overspread the clear firmament 
 throughout this portion of the scene. 
 
 As I still stood on the plain and looked 
 around, I saw a woman coming towards 
 me from the wood. Her stature was
 
 BASTL. 155 
 
 tall ; her black hair flowed about her 
 unconfined, in wondrous luxuriance ; her 
 robe was of the dun hue of the vapour 
 and mist which hung above the trees, and 
 fell to her feet in dark thick folds. She 
 came on towards me swiftly and softly, 
 passing over the ground like cloud- 
 shadows over the ripe corn-field or the 
 calm water. 
 
 I looked to the other side, towards the 
 hills; and there was another woman de- 
 scending from their bright summits ; and 
 her robe was white, and pure, and glisten- 
 ing. Her face was illumined with a light, 
 like the light of the harvest moon; and 
 her footsteps, as she descended the hills, 
 left a long track of brightness, that sparkled 
 far behind her, like the track of the stars 
 when the winter night is clear and cold. 
 She came to the place where the hills and
 
 156 BASIL. 
 
 the plain were joined together. Then she 
 stopped, and I knew that she was watching 
 me from afar off. 
 
 Meanwhile, the woman from the dark 
 wood still approached; never pausing on 
 her path, like the woman from the fair 
 hills. And now I could see her face 
 plainly. Her eyes were lustrous and fasci- 
 nating, as the eyes of a serpent — large, 
 dark and soft, as the eyes of the wild 
 doe. Her lips were parted with a languid 
 smile ; and she drew back the long hair, 
 which lay over her cheeks, her neck, her 
 bosom, while I was gazing on her. 
 
 Then, I felt as if a light were shining on 
 me from the other side ; so I turned round 
 to look, and there was the woman from 
 the hills beckoning me away to ascend with 
 her towards the bright clouds above. Her 
 arm, as she held it forth, shone fair, even
 
 BASIL. 157 
 
 against the fair hills ; and from her out- 
 stretched hand came long thin rays of 
 trembling light, which penetrated to where 
 I stood, cooling and calming wherever they 
 touched me. 
 
 But the woman from the woods still 
 came nearer and nearer, until I could feel 
 her hot, panting breath on my face. Her 
 eyes looked into mine, and fascinated them, 
 as she held out her arms to embrace me. 
 I touched her hand, and in an instant the 
 touch ran through me like fire, from head 
 to foot. Then, still looking intently on me 
 with her wild bright eyes, she clasped her 
 supple arms round my neck, and drew 
 me a few paces away with her towards the 
 wood. 
 
 I felt the rays of light that had touched 
 me from the beckoning hand, depart; and 
 yet once more I looked towards the woman
 
 158 BASIL. 
 
 from the hills. She was ascending again 
 towards the bright clouds, and ever and 
 anon she stopped and turned round, wring- 
 ing her hands and letting her head droop, 
 as if in bitter grief. The last time I saw 
 her look towards me, she was near the 
 clouds. She covered her face with her 
 robe, and knelt down where she stood. 
 After this, I discerned no more of her; 
 for now the woman from the w 7 ood clasped 
 me more closely than before, pressing her 
 warm lips on mine ; and it was as if her 
 long hair fell all around us both, spreading 
 over my eyes like a veil, to hide from them 
 the fair hill-tops, and the woman who 
 was walking onward to the bright clouds 
 above. 
 
 Then, I was drawn along in the arms 
 of the dark woman, with my blood burning 
 and my breath failing me, until we entered
 
 BASIL. 159 
 
 the secret recesses that lay amid the un- 
 fathomable depths of trees. And there, 
 she encircled me in the folds of her dusky 
 robe, and laid her hot cheek close to mine, 
 and murmured a mysterious music in my 
 ear, amid the midnight silence and darkness 
 of all that was around us. And I had no 
 thought of returning to the plain again ; for 
 I had forgotten the woman from the fair 
 hills, and had given myself up, heart, and 
 soul, and body, to the woman from the dark 
 woods. 
 
 Here the dream ended, and I awoke. 
 
 It was broad daylight. The sun shone 
 brilliantly, the sky was cloudless. I 
 looked at my watch; it had stopped. 
 Shortly afterwards, I heard the hall clock 
 strike six. 
 
 My dream was vividly impressed on
 
 160 BASIL. 
 
 my memory, especially the latter part of it. 
 Was it a warning of coming events, fore- 
 shadowed in the wild visions of sleep? 
 But to what practical purpose could this 
 dream, or indeed any dream, tend ? Why 
 had it remained incomplete, failing to show 
 me the visionary consequences of my vision- 
 ary actions ? What superstition to ask ! 
 What a waste of attention to bestow it on 
 such a trifle as a dream ! 
 
 Still, this trifle had produced one abiding 
 result. I knew it not then ; but I know it 
 now. As I looked out on the reviving, 
 re-assuring sunlight, it was easy enough for 
 me to dismiss as ridiculous from my mind, 
 or rather from my conscience, the tendency 
 to see in the two shadowy forms of my 
 dream, the types of two real living beings, 
 whose names almost trembled into utterance
 
 BASIL. 161 
 
 on my lips; but I could not also dismiss 
 from my heart the love-images which that 
 dream had set up there for the worship of 
 the senses. Those results of the night still 
 remained within me, growing and strength- 
 ening with every minute. 
 
 If I had been told beforehand how the 
 mere sight of the morning would reani- 
 mate and embolden me, I should have 
 scouted the prediction as too outrageous 
 for consideration; yet so it was. The 
 moody and boding reflections, the fear and 
 struggle of the hours of darkness were gone 
 with the daylight. The love-thoughts of 
 Margaret alone remained, and now remained 
 unquestioned and unopposed. Were my 
 convictions of a few hours since, like the 
 night-mists that fade before returning sun- 
 shine ? I knew not. But I was young ;
 
 162 BASIL. 
 
 and each new morning is as much 
 the new life of youth, as the new life of 
 Nature. 
 
 So I left my study, and went out. Con- 
 sequences might come how they would, 
 and when they would; I thought of them 
 no more. It seemed as if I had cast off 
 every melancholy thought, in leaving my 
 room ; as if my heart had sprung up more 
 elastic than ever, after the burden that had 
 been laid on it during the night. Enjoy- 
 ment for the present, hope for the future, 
 and chance and fortune to trust in to the 
 very last ! This was my creed, as I 
 walked into the street, determined to see 
 Margaret again, and to tell her of my 
 love before the day was out. In the ex- 
 hiliration of the fresh air and the gay sun- 
 shine, I turned my steps towards Hollyoake
 
 BASIL. 163 
 
 Square, almost as light-hearted as a boy 
 let loose from school, joyously repeating 
 Shakspeare's lines as I went : 
 
 " Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that, 
 And manage it against despairing thoughts."
 
 164 BASIL. 
 
 X. 
 
 London was rousing everywhere into 
 morning activity, as I passed through the 
 streets. The shutters were being removed 
 from the windows of public-houses — the 
 drink-vam pyres that suck the life of London, 
 were opening their eyes betimes to look 
 abroad for the new day's prey ! Small to- 
 bacco and provision-shops in poor neigh- 
 bourhoods ; dirty little eating-houses, exhaling
 
 BASIL. 1 65 
 
 greasy-smelling steam, and displaying a leaf 
 of yesterday's paper, stained and fly-blown, 
 hanging in the windows — were already 
 plying, or making ready to ply, their daily 
 trade. Here, a labouring man, late for his 
 work, hurried by ; there, a hale old gentle- 
 man started for his early walk before break- 
 fast. Now a market-cart, already unloaded, 
 passed me on its way back to the country ; 
 now, a cab, laden with luggage and carrying 
 pale, sleepy-looking people, rattled by, bound 
 for the morning train or the morning steam- 
 boat. I saw the mighty vitality of the great 
 city reviving and renewing itself in every 
 direction ; and I felt an unwonted interest in 
 the sight : it was as if all things, on all sides, 
 were reflecting before me the aspect of my 
 own heart. 
 
 But the quiet and torpor of the night 
 still hung over Hollyoake Square. That
 
 166 BASIL. 
 
 dreary neighbourhood seemed to vindicate its 
 dreariness by being the last to awaken even 
 to a semblance of activity and life. Nothing 
 was stirring as yet at North Villa. I walked 
 on, beyond the last houses, into the sooty 
 London fields ; and tried to think of the 
 course I ought to pursue in order to see 
 Margaret, and speak to her, before I turned 
 homeward again. After the lapse of more 
 than half an hour, I returned to the square, 
 without plan or project ; but resolved, never- 
 theless, to carry my point. 
 
 The garden-gate of North Villa was now 
 open. One of the female servants of the 
 house was standing at it, to breathe the fresh 
 air, and look about her, before the duties of 
 the day began. I advanced ; determined, 
 if money and persuasion could do it, to 
 secure her services. 
 
 She was young (that was one chance in
 
 BASIL. 167 
 
 my favour !) — plump, florid, and evidently 
 not by any means careless about her per- 
 sonal appearance (that gave me another !). 
 As she saw me approaching her, she smiled ; 
 and passed her apron hurriedly over her 
 face — carefully polishing it for my in- 
 spection ; much as a broker polishes a 
 piece of furniture when you stop to look at 
 it. 
 
 " Are you in Mr. Sherwin's service ?" 
 — I asked, as I got to the garden gate. 
 
 " As plain-cook, Sir ;" answered the girl, 
 administering to her face a final and furious 
 rub of the apron. 
 
 " Should you be very much surprised if I 
 asked you to do me a great favour ?" 
 
 " Well — really Sir — I don't know — bein' 
 a stranger, like — and — well, I'm sure I don't 
 know !" — Here she stopped, and transferred 
 the apron-rubbing to her arms.
 
 168 BASIL. 
 
 "I hope we shan't be strangers long. 
 Suppose I begin our acquaintance by 
 telling you that you would look pret- 
 tier in brighter cap-ribbons, and asking you 
 to buy some, just to see whether I am not 
 right?" (giving her money). 
 
 " It's very kind of you to say so, Sir ; 
 and thank you" (smiling, and re-arranging 
 the set of her cap) ; " but cap ribbons is the 
 last things I can buy while I'm in this 
 place ' (irritably administering a fresh polish 
 to her arm with her apron). "Master's 
 master and missus too, here ; and drives 
 us half wild with the fuss he makes about 
 our caps and ribbons. He's such an auste- 
 rious man, that he will have our caps as 
 he likes 'em. It's bad enough when a mis- 
 sus meddles with a poor servant's ribbons ; 
 but to have master come down into the 
 kitchen, and — Well, it's no use a-telling
 
 BASIL. 169 
 
 you of it, Sir — and — and thank you, 
 Sir, for what you've given me, all the 
 same !" 
 
 " I hope this is not the last time I 
 shall make you a present. And now I 
 must come to the favour I want to ask of 
 you : can you keep a secret ?" 
 
 " That I can, Sir ! I've kep' a many 
 secrets since I've been out at service." 
 
 " Well : I want you to get me an 
 opportunity of speaking to your young 
 lady-" 
 
 " To Miss Margaret, Sir !" 
 
 " Yes. I want an opportunity of seeing 
 Miss Margaret, and speaking to her in pri- 
 vate — and not a word must be said to her 
 about it, beforehand." 
 
 " Oh Lord, Sir ! I couldn't dare to do 
 it !" 
 
 " Come ! come ! Can't you guess why 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 1 70 BASIL. 
 
 I want to see your young lady, and what I 
 want to say to her?" 
 
 The girl smiled, and shook her head 
 archly. " P'raps you're in love with 
 Miss Margaret, Sir ! — But I couldn't do 
 it — oh dear no ! I couldn't dare to do 
 it !" 
 
 " Very well ; but you can tell me at 
 least, whether Miss Margaret ever goes out 
 to take a walk ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, Sir ; mostly every day." 
 
 " Do you ever go out with her ? — just to 
 take care of her w 7 hen no one else can be 
 spared ?" 
 
 " Don't ask me — please, Sir, don't !" 
 (crumpling her apron between her fingers, 
 with a very piteous and perplexed air). "I 
 don't know you ; and Miss Margaret don't 
 know you, I'm sure — I couldn't — please, Sir, 
 I really couldn't!"
 
 BASIL. 171 
 
 " Just take a good look at me ! Do 
 you think I am likely to do you or your 
 young lady any harm ? Am I too dan- 
 gerous a man to be trusted ? Would you 
 believe me on my promise ?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir, I'm sure I would! — bein' so 
 kind and so civil to me, too !" (a fresh 
 arrangement of the cap followed this 
 speech.) 
 
 "Then suppose I promised, in the first 
 place, not to tell Miss Margaret that I had 
 spoken to you about her at all. And 
 suppose I promised, in the second place, 
 that, if you told me when you and Miss 
 Margaret go out together, I would onlv 
 speak to her while she was in your sight, 
 and would leave her the moment you 
 wished me to go away. Don't you think 
 you could venture to help me, if I promised 
 all that ?" 
 
 1 2
 
 172 BASIL. 
 
 " Well, Sir, that would make a difference, 
 to be sure. But then, it's master I'm so 
 afraid of — couldn't you speak to master first, 
 
 sir r 
 
 " Suppose you were in Miss Margaret's 
 place, would you like to be made love to, 
 by your father's authority, without your 
 own wishes being consulted first ? would you 
 like an offer of marriage, delivered like a 
 message, by means of your father? Come, 
 tell me honestly, would you ?" 
 
 She laughed, and shook her head very 
 expressively. I knew the strength of my 
 last argument, and repeated it : " Sup- 
 pose you were in Miss Margaret's place ?" 
 
 " Hush ! don't speak so loud," resumed 
 the girl in a confidential whisper. "I'm 
 sure you're a gentleman" (here she came 
 close to me), "and mean honourable — 
 hush !" (here she put her hand on my arm)
 
 BASIL. 173 
 
 — "I should like to help you — if I could 
 only dare to do it, I should indeed !" 
 
 " That's a good girl/' said I. " Now tell 
 me, when does Miss Margaret go out to-day ; 
 and who goes with her ?" 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! — it's very wrong to say 
 it ; but I must — hush ! master's gettin' 
 up — oh Lord ! if he should look out of 
 window and see us ! Well : she'll go out 
 with me to market, this morning, at eleven 
 o'clock. She's done it for the last week. 
 Master don't like it ; hut Missus begged 
 and prayed she might ; for Missus says she 
 won't never be fit to be married, if she 
 knows nothink about 'ousekeeping, and 
 prices, and what's good meat, and 'what aint, 
 and all that, you know." 
 
 " Thank .you a thousand times ! you've 
 given me all the help I want. I'll be here 
 before eleven, waiting for you to come out."
 
 1 74 BASIL. 
 
 " Oh, no ! — please don't, Sir — I wish 
 I hadn't told you — I oughtn't, indeed I 
 oughtn't !" 
 
 "No fear — you shan't lose by what you 
 have told me — I promise all I said I 
 would promise — good bye ; and mind, 
 not a word to Miss Margaret till I see 
 her !" 
 
 As I hurried away, I heard the girl run 
 a few paces after me — then stop — then 
 return, and close the garden gate softly. 
 She had evidently put herself once more in 
 Miss Margaret's place ; and had given up all 
 idea of further resistance as she did so. 
 
 How should I occupy the hours until 
 eleven o'clock ? Deceit whispered : — go 
 home ; avoid even the chance of exciting 
 suspicion, by breakfasting with your family 
 as usual. And as deceit counselled, so I 
 acted.
 
 BASIL. 175 
 
 I never remember Clara more kind, 
 more readv with all those trifling little 
 cares and attentions which have so exqui- 
 site a grace, when offered by a woman 
 to a man, and especially by a sister to a 
 brother, as when she and I and mv father 
 assembled together at the breakfast-table. I 
 now recollect with shame and bitterness 
 of spirit, how little I thought about her, 
 or spoke to her, on that morning ; with 
 how little hesitation, or self-reproach I 
 excused myself from accepting an engage- 
 ment which she wished to make with me 
 for that day. My father was absorbed in 
 some matter of business : to him she could 
 not speak. It was to me that she addressed, 
 in her kind quiet tones, all her wonted ques- 
 tions and remarks of the morning. I hardly 
 listened to them ; I answered them carelessly 
 and briefly. ' The moment breakfast was
 
 176 BASIL. 
 
 over, without a word of explanation I hastily 
 left the house again. 
 
 As I descended the steps, I looked round 
 by accident at the dining-room window. 
 Clara was looking after me from it. There 
 was the same anxious expression on her 
 face which it had worn when she left me 
 the evening before. She smiled as our eyes 
 met — a sad, faint smile that made her look 
 unlike herself. But it produced no impres- 
 sion on me then : I had no heart, no 
 thought, no attention for anything but my 
 approaching interview with Margaret. My 
 life throbbed and burned within me, in that 
 direction : it was all coldness, torpor, insen- 
 sibility, in every other. 
 
 I got to Hollyoake Square nearly an 
 hour before the time. In the supense and 
 impatience of that long interval, it was 
 impossible to be a moment in repose. I
 
 BA.S1L. 177 
 
 walked incessantly up and down the square, 
 and round and round the neighbourhood, 
 hearing each quarter chimed from a church 
 clock near, and mechanically quickening my 
 pace the nearer the time came for the hour 
 to strike. At last, I heard the first peal 
 of the eventful eleven. Before the clock 
 was silent, I had taken up my position within 
 view of the gate of North Villa. 
 
 Five minutes passed — ten — and no one 
 appeared. In my impatience, I could almost 
 have rung the bell and entered the house, 
 no matter who might be there, or what 
 might be the result. The first quarter 
 struck ; and at that very moment I heard 
 the door open, and saw Margaret, and the 
 servant with whom I had spoken, descending 
 the steps. 
 
 They passed out slowly through the 
 garden gate, and walked down the square, 
 
 i 3
 
 178 BASIL. 
 
 away from where I was standing. The 
 servant noticed me by one significant look, 
 as they went on. Her young mistress did 
 not appear to see me. At first, my agitation 
 was so violent that I was perfectly incapable 
 of following them a single step. In a few 
 moments I recovered myself; and hastened 
 to overtake them, before they arrived at 
 a more frequented part of the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 As I approached her side, Margaret turned 
 suddenly and looked at me, with an ex- 
 pression of anger and astonishment in her 
 eyes. The next instant, her lovely face 
 became tinged all over with a deep, burn- 
 ing blush ; her head drooped a little ; she 
 hesitated for a moment ; and then abruptly 
 quickened her pace. Did she recollect 
 me? The mere chance that she did, gave 
 me confidence : I —
 
 BASIL. 179 
 
 — No ! I cannot write down the words 
 that I said to her. Recollecting the end 
 to which our, fatal interview led, I recoil 
 with shame, with something of horror 
 even, at the very thought of exposing to 
 others, or of preserving in any permanent 
 form, the words in which I first confessed mv 
 love. It may be pride — morbid, miserable, 
 useless pride — which animates me with this 
 feeling ; but I cannot overcome it. Remem- 
 bering what I do, I am ashamed to write, 
 ashamed to think of, what I said at m\ 
 first interview with Margaret Sherwin. 
 Hitherto, I have spoken the stern truth ; 
 sacrificing myself to my confessions un- 
 hesitatingly. Further on ; anywhere, indeed, 
 beyond the point at which I have now 
 arrived — though none of those lighter scenes 
 in my narrative, the recalling and the 
 writing of which has refreshed and recreated
 
 J SO BASIL. 
 
 my mind, will remain to cheer me on — I 
 feel assured that I shall shrink from nothing ; 
 from no necessary details, however humili- 
 ating. But here, at that very part of my 
 story where it might be imagined that I 
 could write minutely and circumstantially 
 with most readiness and most ease — here, 
 for the first and the last time, I must 
 generalise and must hurry on. I can 
 give no good reason for the sensations 
 which now influence me : I cannot analyse 
 them ; and I would not if I could. 
 
 Well: I risked everything and spoke to 
 her. My words, confused as they were, 
 came hotly, eagerly, and eloquently from 
 my heart. In the space of a few minutes, 
 1 confessed to her all, and more than all, 
 that I have here painfully related in many 
 pages. I made use of my name and my
 
 BASIL. 1 8 1 
 
 rank in life — even now, mv cheeks burn 
 while I think of it — to dazzle her girl's 
 pride, to make her listen to me for the 
 sake of my station, if she would not for 
 the sake of my suit, however honourably 
 urged. Never before had I committed the 
 meanness of trusting* to mv social advan- 
 tages, what I feared to trust to myself. It 
 is true, that love soars higher than the 
 other passions ; but it can stoop lower as 
 well. 
 
 Her answers to all that I urged were con- 
 fused, common-place, and chilling enough. 
 I had surprised her — frightened her — it was 
 impossible she could listen to such addresses 
 from a total stranger — it was very wrong 
 of me to speak, and of her to stop and 
 hear me — I should remember what became 
 me as a gentleman — and should not make 
 such advances to her again — I knew nothing
 
 182 BASIL. 
 
 of her — it was impossible I could really 
 care about her in so short a time — she 
 must beg that I would allow her to proceed 
 unhindered. 
 
 Thus she spoke ; sometimes standing still, 
 sometimes moving hurriedly a few steps 
 forward. She might have expressed her- 
 self severely, even angrily ; but nothing she 
 could have said would have counteracted 
 the fascination that her presence exercised 
 over me. I saw her face, lovelier than 
 ever in its confusion, in its rapid changes 
 of expression ; I saw her dark, eloquent 
 eyes, once or twice raised to mine, then 
 instantly withdrawn again — and so long as 
 I could look on her, I cared not what I 
 listened to. She was only speaking what 
 she had been educated to speak ; it was 
 not in her words that I sought the clue 
 to her thoughts and sensations ; but in the
 
 BASIL. 183 
 
 tone of her voice, in the language of her 
 eyes, in the whole expression of her face. 
 All these contained indications which reas- 
 sured me. I tried everything that respect, 
 that the persuasion of love could urge, to 
 win her consent to our meeting again ; but 
 she only answered with repetitions of what 
 she had said before, walking onward rapidly 
 while she spoke. The servant, who had 
 hitherto lingered a few paces behind, now 
 advanced to her young mistress's side, with 
 a significant look, as if to remind me of 
 my promise. Saying a few parting words, 
 I let them proceed : at this first interne w, 
 to have delaved them longer would have 
 been risking too much. 
 
 As thev walked awav, the servant turned 
 round, nodding her head and smiling, as 
 if to assure me that I had lost nothing 
 bv the forbearance which I had exercised.
 
 184 BASIL. 
 
 Margaret neither lingered nor looked back. 
 This last proof of modesty and reserve, so 
 far from discouraging, attracted me to her 
 more powerfully than ever. After a first 
 interview, it was the most becoming virtue 
 she could have shown. All my love for 
 her before, seemed as nothing compared 
 with my love for her now that she had 
 left me, and left me without a parting look. 
 I could have knelt down, and kissed the 
 ground she had trodden on, even though 
 it was the path that had taken her from 
 my side ! 
 
 And now, what course should I next 
 pursue ? Could I expect that Margaret, 
 after what she had said, would go out again 
 at the same hour on the morrow ? No : 
 she would not so soon abandon the modesty 
 and restraint that she had shown at our 
 first interview. How communicate with
 
 BASIL. 185 
 
 her? how manage most skilfully to make 
 good the first favourable impression which 
 vanity whispered I had already produced? 
 I determined to write to her. 
 
 Ah, how different was the writing of 
 that letter, to the writing of those once- 
 treasured pages of my romance, which I 
 had now abandoned, as it seemed, for ever ! 
 How slowly I worked ; how cautiously and 
 diffidently I built up sentence after sen- 
 tence, and doubtingly set a stop here, and 
 laboriously rounded off a paragraph there, 
 when I toiled in the service of ambition ! 
 Now, when I had given myself up to the 
 service of love, how rapidly the pen ran 
 over the paper ; how much more freely and 
 smoothly the desires of the heart flowed 
 into words, than the thoughts of the mind ! 
 Composition was an instinct now, an art 
 no longer. I could write eloquently, and
 
 186 BASIL. 
 
 yet write without pausing for an expression 
 or blotting a word — It was the slow progress 
 up the hill, in the service of ambition ; it 
 was the swift (too swift) career down it, 
 in the service of love ! 
 
 There is no need to describe the contents 
 of my letter to Margaret ; they comprised a 
 mere recapitulation of what I had already said 
 to her. I insisted often and strongly on the 
 honourable purpose of my suit ; and ended 
 by entreating her to write an answer, and 
 consent to allow me another interview. 
 
 The letter was delivered by the servant. 
 Another present, a little more timely per- 
 suasion, and, above all, the regard I had 
 shown to my promise, won the girl with all 
 her heart to my interests. She was ready to 
 help me in every way, as long as her inter- 
 ference could be kept a secret from her 
 master.
 
 BASIL. 187 
 
 I waited a day for the reply to my letter ; 
 but none came. The servant could give me 
 no explanation of this silence. Her young 
 mistress had not said one word to her about 
 me, since the morning when we had met. 
 Still not discouraged, I wrote again. The 
 letter contained some lover's threats this 
 time, as well as lover's entreaties ; and it 
 produced its effect — an answer came. 
 
 It was very short — rather hurriedly and 
 tremblingly written — and simply said that 
 the difference between my rank and her's 
 made it her duty to request of me, that 
 neither by word nor by letter should I ever 
 address her again. 
 
 " Difference in rank " — that was the only 
 objection then ! " Her duty" — it was not 
 from inclination that she refused me ! So 
 young a creature; and yet so noble in self- 
 sacrifice, so firm in her integrity ! I put
 
 188 BASIL. 
 
 the letter to my lips (her hand had rested on 
 it) ; resolving to disobey her injunction, and 
 see her again. My rank ! What was my 
 rank ? Something to cast down at Margaret's 
 feet, for Margaret to trample on ! 
 
 Once more I sought the aid of my faithful 
 ally, the servant. After some delays which 
 half maddened me with impatience, insignifi- 
 cant though they were, she contrived to 
 fulfil my wishes. One afternoon, while Mr. 
 Sherwin was away at business, and while his 
 wife had gone out, I succeeded in gaining 
 admission to the garden at the back of the 
 house, where Margaret was then occupied in 
 watering some flowers. 
 
 She started as she saw me, and attempted 
 to return to the house. I took her hand to 
 detain her. She withdrew it, but neither 
 abruptly nor angrily. I seized the opportu- 
 nity, while she hesitated whether to persist
 
 BASIL. 189 
 
 or not in retiring ; and repeated what I had 
 already said to her at our first interview 
 (what is the real language of love but a 
 language of repetitions?). She answered, 
 as she had answered me in her letter : the 
 difference in our rank made it her dutv to 
 discourage me. 
 
 " But if this difference did not exist/' said 
 I : "if we were both living in the same rank, 
 Margaret — " 
 
 She looked up quickly ; then moved away 
 a step or two, as I addressed her by her 
 Christian name. 
 
 "Are you offended with me for calling 
 you Margaret so soon ? I do not think of 
 you as Miss Sherwin, but as Margaret — are 
 you offended with me for speaking as I 
 
 think r 
 
 No : she ought not to be offended with 
 me, or with anybody, for doing that.
 
 190 BASIL. 
 
 " Suppose this difference in rank, which 
 you so cruelly insist on, did not exist, would 
 you tell me not to hope, not to speak then, 
 as coldly as you tell me now ?" 
 
 I must not ask her that — it was no use- — 
 the difference in rank did exist. 
 
 " Perhaps I have met you too late ? — 
 perhaps you are already — " 
 
 " No ! oh, no !" — she stopped abruptly, 
 as the words passed her lips. The same 
 warm, lovely blush which I had before seen 
 spreading over her face, rose on it now. 
 She evidently felt that she had unguardedly 
 said too much : that she had given me an 
 answer in a case where, according to every 
 established love-law of the female code, I 
 had no right to expect one. Her expres- 
 sion looked so beautiful at this moment, 
 that, absorbed in gazing on her, I could 
 not speak. She was the first to break
 
 BASIL. 191 
 
 the silence, by entreating me to go ; by 
 accusing me — but in very low and broken 
 tones — of having committed an intrusion 
 which she should hardly have expected from 
 me. 
 
 " I will regain your better opinion," said 
 I, eagerly catching at the most favourable 
 interpretation of her last words, " by seeing 
 you for the next time, and for all times 
 after, with your father's full permission." 
 (She looked at me with something like 
 alarm in her eyes.) " Yes, Margaret — for 
 Margaret I must call you; perhaps it may 
 even be dear Margaret before long ! I will 
 write to-day, and ask for a private interview 
 with your father. I will tell him all I 
 have told you : he shall know how honour- 
 ably and admirably you have received 
 advances, which — which I could only make 
 as I have done: I will tell him that you
 
 192 BASIL. 
 
 take a rank in beauty and goodness, in all 
 that can make you the love and pride and 
 happiness of every one about you. which 
 is the highest rank in the land — a far 
 higher rank than mine — the only rank 
 I desire." (A smile which she vainly 
 strove to repress, stole charmingly to her 
 lips.) " Yes, I will do this ; and what 
 do you think will be his answer? I will 
 never leave him till it is favourable — and 
 then what will be yours ? One word, Mar- 
 garet ; one word before I go — " 
 
 I attempted to take her hand a second 
 time ; but she broke from me ; looked up 
 again for an instant — how eloquent a look ! — 
 and then hurried into the house. 
 
 What more could I desire? What more 
 could the modesty and timidity of a young 
 girl concede to me ? 
 
 The moment I reached home, I wrote
 
 BASIL. 193 
 
 to Mr. Sherwin. The letter was super- 
 scribed " Private ;" and simply requested an 
 interview with him on a subject of impor- 
 tance, at any hour he might mention. 
 Unwilling to trust what I had written to 
 the post, I sent my note by a messenger 
 — not one of our own servants, caution 
 forbade that — and instructed the man to 
 wait for an answer : if Mr. Sherwin was out, 
 to wait till he came home. 
 
 After a long delay — long to me ; for my 
 impatience would fain have turned hours 
 into minutes — I received a reply. It was 
 written on gilt-edged letter-paper, in a hand- 
 writing vulgarised by innumerable flourishes. 
 Mr. Sherwin presented his respectful compli- 
 ments, and would be happy to have the 
 honour of seeing me at North Villa, if quite 
 convenient, at five o'clock to-morrow after- 
 noon. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 BASIL. 
 
 I folded up the letter carefully : it was 
 almost as precious as a letter from Margaret 
 herself. That night I passed sleeplessly, 
 revolving in my mind every possible course 
 that I could take at the interview of the 
 morrow. It would be a difficult and a deli- 
 cate business. I knew nothing of Mr. 
 Sherwin's character; yet I must trust him 
 with a secret which I dared not trust to my 
 own father. Any proposals for paying 
 addresses to his daughter, coming from 
 one in my position, might appear open to 
 suspicion. What could I say about mar- 
 riage? A public, acknowledged marriage 
 was impossible: a private marriage might 
 be a bold, if not a fatal proposal. I could 
 come to no other conclusion, reflect as 
 anxiously as I might, than that it was best 
 for me to speak candidly at all hazards. I 
 could be candid enough when it suited my 
 purpose !
 
 BASIL. 195 
 
 This resolution taken, I gave myself up 
 again to my thoughts of Margaret — 
 thoughts full of blind hope, of feverish joy, 
 that filled my mind to the exclusion of 
 all others. It was not till the next day, 
 when the time approached for my inter- 
 view with Mr. Sherwin, that I thoroughly 
 roused myself once more to practical matters. 
 Determined to try what impression appear- 
 ances could make on him, I took unusual 
 pains with my dress; and more, I applied 
 to a friend whom I could rely on as likely 
 to ask no questions — I write this in shame 
 and sorrow : I tell truth here, where it is 
 hard penance to tell it — I applied, I say, to 
 a friend for the loan of one of his carnages 
 to take me to North Villa; knowing the 
 common weakness of rank-worship and 
 wealth-worship in men of Mr. Sherwin 's 
 order, and meanly determining to profit 
 
 K 2
 
 196 BASIL. 
 
 by it to the utmost. My friend's carriage 
 was willingly lent me. By my directions, 
 it took me up at the appointed hour, at a 
 shop where I was a regular customer. 
 
 (If I had asked for my father's car- 
 riage, or my sister's, I must have trusted 
 more to our own servants than I was 
 willing to trust.) 
 
 The events I have described, occupied 
 a week. During that period, did any 
 fresh fears and forebodings assail me while 
 I was under our own roof? No. Did I 
 take any thought of what Clara might 
 feel, seeing my habits of life so altered 
 as regarded my intercourse with her? No. 
 Hope and Vanity were all that time minis- 
 tering sweet services to love ; and the smoke 
 of their incense lulled my heart into forget- 
 fulness of all external influences, even to the 
 long-cherished familiar influences of home.
 
 BASIL. 197 
 
 It was still the first act only of the dark 
 drama of my early manhood — there were 
 other acts to be played out yet, before the 
 retribution came.
 
 198 BASIL. 
 
 XL 
 
 On my arrival at North Villa, I was 
 shown into what I presumed was the 
 drawing-room. Everything was oppressively 
 new. The brilliantly- varnished door cracked 
 with a report like a pistol when it was 
 opened; the paper on the walls, with its 
 gaudy pattern of birds, trellis-work, and 
 flowers, in gold, red, and green on a white 
 ground, looked hardly dry yet ; the showy
 
 BASIL. 199 
 
 , window-curtains of white and sky-blue, and 
 the still showier carpet of red and yellow, 
 seemed as if they had come out of the shop 
 yesterday ; the round rosewood table was 
 in a painfully high state of polish ; the 
 morocco-bound picture books that lay on it, 
 looked as if they had never been moved or 
 opened since they had been bought ; not 
 one leaf even of the music on the piano was 
 dogs-eared or worn. Never was a richly- 
 furnished room more thoroughly comfort- 
 less than this — the eye ached at looking 
 round it. There was no repose anywhere. 
 The print of the Queen, hanging lonely 
 on the wall, in its heavy gilt frame, with a 
 large crown at the top, glared on you : the 
 paper, the curtains, the carpet, glared on 
 you: the books, the wax-flowers in glass- 
 cases, the chairs in flaring chintz-covers, 
 the china-plates on the door, the blue and
 
 200 BASIL. 
 
 pink glass vases and cups ranged on the 
 chimney-piece, the over-ornamented chif- 
 foniers with Tonbridge toys and long-necked 
 smelling bottles on their upper shelves, all 
 glared on you. There was no look of 
 shadow, shelter, secrecy, or retirement in 
 any one nook or corner of those four gaudy 
 walls. All surrounding objects seemed 
 startlingly near to the eye; much nearer 
 than they really were. The room would 
 have given a nervous man the headache, 
 before he had been in it a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 I was not kept waiting long. Another 
 violent crack from the new door, announced 
 the entrance of Mr. Sherwin himself. 
 
 He was a tall, thin man : rather round- 
 shouldered; weak at the knees, and trying 
 to conceal the weakness in the breadth of 
 his trousers. He w T ore a white cravat, and
 
 BASIL. 201 
 
 an absurdly high shirt collar. His com- 
 plexion was sallow ; his eyes were small, 
 black, bright, and incessantly in motion — 
 indeed, all his features were singularly 
 mobile: they were affected by nervous con- 
 tractions and spasms which were constantly 
 drawing up and down in all directions the 
 brow, the mouth, and the muscles of the 
 cheek. His hair had been black, but was 
 now turning to a sort of iron-grey ; it was 
 very dry, wiry, and plentiful, and part of 
 it projected almost horizontally over his 
 forehead. He had a habit of stretching it 
 in this direction, by irritably combing it out, 
 from time to time, with his fingers. His 
 lips were thin and colourless, the lines about 
 them being numerous and strongly-marked. 
 Had I seen him under ordinarv circum- 
 stances, I should have set him down as a 
 little-minded man: a small tyrant in his 
 
 K 3
 
 202 BASIL. 
 
 own way over those dependent on him ; a 
 pompous parasite to those above him — a 
 great stickler for the conventional respec- 
 tabilities of life, and a great believer in his 
 own infallibility. But he was Margaret's 
 father; and I was determined to be pleased 
 with him. 
 
 He made me a low, and rather a cringing 
 bow — then looked to the window, and see- 
 ing the carriage waiting for me at his door, 
 made another bow, and insisted on relieving 
 me of my hat with his own hand. This 
 done, he blew his nose, coughed, and begged 
 to know what he could do for me. 
 
 I felt some difficulty in opening my busi- 
 ness to him. It was necessary to speak, 
 however, at once — I began with an apo- 
 logy- 
 
 " I am afraid, Mr. Sherwin, that this in- 
 trusion on the part of a perfect stranger — "
 
 BASIL. 203 
 
 " Not entirely a stranger, Sir, if I may 
 be allowed to say so." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " I had the great pleasure, Sir, and profit, 
 and — and, indeed, advantage of being shown 
 over your town residence last year, when the 
 family were absent from London. A very 
 beautiful house — I happen to be acquainted 
 
 with the steward of Mr. , your respected 
 
 father : he was kind enough to allow me to 
 walk through the rooms — a treat — quite an 
 intellectual treat, indeed — the furniture and 
 hangings, and so on, arranged in such a 
 chaste style — and the pictures, some of the 
 finest pieces I ever saw — I was delighted — 
 quite delighted, indeed." 
 
 He spoke in under tones, laying great 
 stress upon particular words that were 
 evidently favourites with him — such as, 
 " indeed." Not only his eyes, but his whole
 
 204 BASIL. 
 
 face, seemed to be nervously blinking and 
 winking all the time he was addressing 
 me. In the embarrassment and anxiety 
 which I then felt, this peculiarity fidgetted 
 and bewildered me more than I can de- 
 scribe. I would have given the world to 
 have had his back turned, before I spoke 
 to him again. 
 
 "I am delighted to hear that my family 
 and my name are not unknown to you, Mr. 
 Sherwin," I resumed, " Under those circum- 
 stances, I shall feel less hesitation and diffi- 
 culty in making you acquainted with the 
 object of my visit." 
 
 " Just so — quite so, indeed — may I offer 
 you anything ? — a glass of sherry, a — " 
 
 " Nothing, thank you. In the first place, 
 Mr. Sherwin, I have reasons for wishing 
 that this interview, whatever results it may 
 lead to, may be considered strictly confiden-
 
 BASIL. 205 
 
 tial. I am sure I can depend on your 
 favouring me thus far ?" 
 
 " Certainly — most certainly — the strictest 
 secrecy of course — pray go on." 
 
 He drew his chair a little nearer to me. 
 Through all his blinking and winking, I 
 could see a latent expression of cunning and 
 curiosity in his eyes. My card was in his 
 hand : he was nervously rolling and unrolling 
 it, without a moment's cessation, in his 
 anxiety to hear what I had to say. 
 
 " I must also beg you to suspend your 
 judgment until you have heard me through. 
 You may be disposed to view — to view, I say 
 — unfavourably at first — in short, Mr. Sher- 
 win, without further preface, the object of 
 my visit is connected with your daughter, 
 with Miss Margaret Sherwin — " 
 
 " My daughter ! — Marg — ! bless my soul 
 — God bless my soul, I really can't imagine" —
 
 206 BASIL. 
 
 He stopped half-breathless, bending for- 
 
 i 
 
 ward towards me, and crumpling my card 
 between his fingers into the smallest possible 
 dimensions. 
 
 " Rather more than a week ago," I con- 
 tinued, " I accidentally met Miss Sherwin 
 in an omnibus, accompanied by a lady older 
 than herself — " 
 
 " My wife ; Mrs. Sherwin," he said, im- 
 patiently motioning with his hand, as if 
 " Mrs. Sherwin " were some insignificant 
 obstacle to the conversation, which he wished 
 to clear out of the way as fast as possi- 
 ble. 
 
 "You will not probably be surprised to 
 hear that I was struck by Miss Sherwin's 
 extreme beauty. The impression she made 
 on me was something more, however, than a 
 mere momentary feeling of admiration. To 
 speak candidly, I felt — I — you have heard of
 
 BASIL. 207 
 
 such a thing as love at first sight, Mr. 
 Sherwin ?" 
 
 " In books, Sir " — tapping one of the 
 morocco-bound volumes on the table, and 
 smiling — a curious smile, partly deferential 
 and partly sarcastic. 
 
 " You would be inclined to laugh, I dare 
 say, if I asked you to look on me, as a proof 
 that there is such a thing as love at first 
 sight, out of books. But, however, without 
 dwelling farther on that, it is my duty to 
 confess to you, in all candour and honesty, 
 that the impression Miss Sherwin produced 
 on me was such as to make me desire the 
 privilege of becoming acquainted with her 
 — in fact, I — in plain words, I discovered her 
 abode by following her to this house." 
 
 " Really, Sir ! give me leave to say — 
 upon my soul this is the most ! — " 
 
 " Pray hear me out, Mr. Slier win : you
 
 208 BASIL. 
 
 will not condemn my conduct, I think, if 
 vou hear me to the end." 
 
 He muttered something unintelligible ; 
 his complexion turned yellower ; he dropped 
 my card which he had by this time crushed 
 into fragments ; and ran his hand rapidly 
 through his hair until he had stretched it 
 out like a penthouse over his forehead — 
 blinking more than ever, all the time, and 
 regarding me with a lowering, sinister ex- 
 pression of countenance. I saw that it was 
 useless to treat him as I should have treated 
 a gentleman. He had evidently put the 
 meanest and the foullest construction upon 
 my delicacy and hesitation in speaking to 
 him: so I altered my plan, and came to 
 the point abruptly — " came to business," as 
 he would have called it. 
 
 " I ought to have been plainer, Mr. Sher- 
 win ; I ought perhaps to have told you at
 
 BASIL. 209 
 
 the outset, in so many words, that I came 
 to — to — " (I was about to say, " to ask 
 your daughter's hand in marriage ;" but, 
 reckless of all consequences as love had 
 made me, a thought of my father moved 
 darkly over my mind at that moment, and 
 the words would not pass my lips). 
 
 " Well, Sir ! to what ?" 
 
 The tone in which he said this was harsh 
 enough, almost insolent enough, to rouse me. 
 It gave me back my self-possession imme- 
 diately. 
 
 " To ask your permission, Sir, to pay my 
 addresses to Miss Sherwin — or, to be plainer 
 still, if you like, to ask of you her hand 
 in marriage." 
 
 The words were spoken — my heart beat 
 violently ; I felt that I was turning pale. 
 Even if I could have done so, I would not 
 have recalled what I had just said; but
 
 210 BASIL. 
 
 still, I trembled in spite of myself, as I 
 made the first, the irretrievable move 
 perhaps in the hazardous game that I was 
 playing — as I expressed in plain, blunt 
 words what I had only rapturously thought 
 over by myself, or delicately hinted at to 
 Margaret, up to this time. 
 
 " God bless me !" cried Mr. Sherwin, 
 suddenly sitting back bolt upright in his 
 chair, and staring on me in such surprise, 
 that his restless features were actually struck 
 with immobility for the moment — " God 
 bless me ! this is quite another story — most 
 gratifying, most astonishing — highly flattered 
 I am sure ; highly indeed, my dear Sir ! I 
 was actually beginning to be afraid that 
 you had come to — sometimes, young 
 gentlemen in your station of life have such 
 loose ideas about the wives and daughters 
 of their — their — in short, of those who are
 
 BASIL. 2 1 1 
 
 not in their rank exactly. But that's 
 not the question — quite a misunderstand- 
 ing — very stupid of me, to be sure — very 
 stupid — pray let me offer you a glass of 
 wine ! (No !) Well, and so my dear girl 
 has produced this impression on you — I 
 am affected, deeply affected by it. You 
 have not spoken to her ? (Yes !) Ah, I 
 ought to be angry with you for that ! 
 but somehow or other — dear girl ! she 
 deserves your admiration — she does in- 
 deed !" 
 
 "No one can be more sensible of that 
 than I am, Mr. Sherwin. I must now beg 
 your attention a little longer, while I state 
 to you, in confidence, how I am situated 
 with regard to the proposals I have made. 
 There are certain circumstances — " 
 
 " Yes— ves." 
 
 He bent forward again eagerly towards
 
 2 1 2 BASIL. 
 
 me, as he spoke ; looking more inquisitive 
 and more cunning than ever. 
 
 " I have already hinted to you, Mr. Sher- 
 win, that I have found means to speak 
 to your daughter — to speak to her twice. I 
 made my advances honourably — she received 
 them with a modesty and a reluctance 
 worthy of herself, worthy of any lady, the 
 highest lady in the land." (Mr. Sherwin 
 looked round reverentially to his print of 
 the Queen; then looked back to me, and 
 bowed solemnly). "Now, although in so 
 many words she directly discouraged me — 
 it is her due that I should say this — still, 
 I think I may without vanity venture 
 to hope that she did so as a matter 
 of duty, more than a matter of inclina- 
 tion." 
 
 "Ah — yes, yes, yes! I understand — I 
 have instilled the most admirable principles
 
 BASIL. 213 
 
 into her — she would do nothing without 
 my authority, of course ?" 
 
 "No doubt that was one reason why 
 she received me as she did ; but she had 
 another which she communicated to me in 
 the plainest terms — the difference in our 
 rank of life." 
 
 " Ah ! she said that, did she ? Exactly 
 so — she saw a difficulty there ? Yes — yes ! 
 high principles, Sir — high principles, thank 
 God !" 
 
 " I need hardly tell you, Mr. Sherwin, 
 how deeply I feel the delicate sense of 
 honour which this objection shows on your 
 daughter's part — you will easily imagine 
 that it is no objection to me, personally. 
 The happiness of my whole life depends on 
 Miss Sherwin; beauty and goodness are 
 ranks above all other ranks in the woman 
 we love ; and I myself desire no higher
 
 214 BASIL. 
 
 honour, as I can conceive no greater 
 happiness, than to be your daughter's hus- 
 band. I told her this : I also told her that 
 I would explain myself on the subject to 
 you. She made no objection ; and I am 
 therefore, I think, justified in considering 
 that if you authorised the removal of 
 scruples, which do her honour at present, 
 she would not feel the delicacy she does 
 now at sanctioning my addresses." 
 
 "Very proper — a very proper way of 
 putting it. Practical, if I may be allowed 
 to say so. And now, my dear Sir, the 
 next point is: how about your own 
 family — your deservedly honoured family — 
 eh?" 
 
 " It is exactly there that the difficulty 
 lies. My father, on whom I am dependent 
 as the younger son, has very strong preju- 
 dices — convictions I ought perhaps to
 
 BASIL. 2J5 
 
 call them — on the subject of social inequali- 
 ties." 
 
 » 
 
 " Quite so — most natural ; most be- 
 coming, indeed, on the part of your 
 respected father. I honour his convictions, 
 Sir. Such estates, such houses, such a 
 family as his — connected, I believe, with the 
 nobility, especially on your late lamented 
 mother's side. My dear Sir, I em- 
 phatically repeat it, your father's convic- 
 tions do him honour; I respect them as 
 much as I respect him ; I do, indeed." 
 
 " I am glad you can view my father's 
 ideas on social subjects in so favourable a 
 light, Mr. Sherwin. You will be less 
 surprised to hear how they are likely 
 to affect me, in the step I am now 
 taking." 
 
 " He disapproves of it, of course — 
 strongly, perhaps. Well, though my dear
 
 216 BASIL. 
 
 girl is worthy of any station ; and a man 
 like me, devoted to mercantile interests, may 
 hold his head up anywhere as one of the 
 props of this commercial country," (here he 
 ran his fingers rapidly through his hair, 
 and tried to look independent), " still I am 
 prepared to admit, under all the circum- 
 stances — I say under all the circumstances 
 — that his disapproval is very natural, and 
 was very much to be expected — very 
 much indeed." 
 
 " He has expressed no disapproval, Mr. 
 Sherwin." 
 
 " You don't say so !" 
 
 " Because I have not given him an op- 
 portunity. My meeting with your daughter 
 has been kept a profound secret from 
 him, and from every member of my family ; 
 and a secret it must remain. I speak 
 advisedly, from my knowledge of my father,
 
 BASIL. 217 
 
 when I say that I hardly know of any 
 means that he would not be capable of 
 employing to frustrate the purpose of this 
 visit, if I had mentioned it to him. He 
 has been the kindest and best of fathers to 
 me ; but I firmly believe, that if I waited 
 for his consent, no entreaties of mine, or 
 of any one belonging to me; no anxieties 
 and sufferings on my part, though they 
 should lav me on a bed of sickness before 
 his eyes, would induce him to give his 
 consent to the marriage I have come to 
 you to propose." 
 
 " But then — bless my soul ! this is 
 carrying things rather far, though — depen- 
 dent as you are on him, and all that ; why 
 — why, what on earth can we do — eh ?" 
 
 " We must keep both the courtship and 
 the marriage secret." 
 
 " Secret ! Good gracious ! I don't — 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 BASIL. 
 
 " Yes, secret — a profound secret among 
 ourselves, until such time as I can divulge 
 my marriage to my father, with the best 
 chance of — of — " 
 
 " But I can't see my way through it at 
 all. This is altogether the most extraor- 
 dinary — what chance would there be, after 
 what you have told me ?" 
 
 " There might be many. For instance, 
 when the marriage was completed, past 
 all hindrance or opposition, I might intro- 
 duce your daughter to my father's notice 
 — without disclosing who she was — and 
 leave her, gradually and unsuspectedly, to 
 win his affection and respect (as with her 
 beauty, elegance, and amiability, she could 
 not fail to do), while I waited until the 
 occasion was ripe for confessing everything. 
 Then if I said to him, ' This young lady, 
 who has so interested and delighted you, is
 
 BASIL. 219 
 
 my wife;' do you think, with that powerful 
 argument in my favour, he could fail to give 
 us his pardon ? If, on the other hand, I 
 could only say, ' This young lady is about 
 to become my wife,' his prejudices would 
 assuredly induce him to recall his most 
 favourable impressions, and refuse his con- 
 sent. In short, Mr. Sherwin, before 
 marriage, it would be impossible to move 
 him — after marriage, when opposition could 
 no longer be of any avail, it would be 
 quite a different thing: we might be sure 
 of producing, sooner or later, the most 
 favourable results. This is why it would be 
 absolutely necessary to keep our union a 
 secret at first." 
 
 I wondered then — I have since won- 
 dered more — how it was that I contrived 
 to speak thus, so smoothly and so unhesi- 
 tatingly, when my conscience was giving 
 
 l 2
 
 220 BASIL. 
 
 the lie all the while to every word I 
 uttered. But, even by this time, love had 
 altered me to myself almost past recogni- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes — yes, I see — oh, yes, I see !" said 
 Mr. S her win, rattling a bunch of keys in 
 his pocket, with an expression of con- 
 siderable perplexity ; " but this is a ticklish 
 business, you know — a very queer and tick- 
 lish business indeed. To have a gentleman 
 of your birth and breeding for a son-in- 
 law, is of course — but then there is the 
 money question — in case you failed with 
 your father after all — my money is all out 
 in my speculations — / can do nothing — 
 'pon my word, I don't know — you've placed 
 me in a position that — in fact, that I never 
 was placed in before." 
 
 " I have influential friends, Mr. Sherwin, 
 in many directions — there are appointments,
 
 BASIL. 221 
 
 good appointments, which would be open 
 to me, if T pushed my interests. I might 
 provide in this way against the chance of 
 failure." 
 
 " Ah ! — well — yes. There's something 
 in that, certainly." 
 
 " I can only assure you that my attach- 
 ment to Miss Sherwin is not of a nature to 
 be overcome by any considerations of in- 
 terest ; but I speak in all our interests, 
 when I say that a private marriage gives 
 us a chance for the future, as oppor- 
 tunities arise of gradually disclosing it. I 
 feel that my love for your daughter is 
 not a love that can be trifled with, or 
 lightly set aside, as an ordinary, everyday 
 affection. I make my offer to you, under 
 some disadvantages and difficulties, perhaps 
 — for I repeat it, with the exception of 
 two hundred a-year left me by my mother,
 
 222 BASIL. 
 
 I am entirely dependent on my father — 
 but I really think my proposals have 
 some compensating advantages to recommend 
 them — " 
 
 " Certainly ! most decidedly so ! I am 
 not insensible, my dear Sir, not by any 
 means, to the great advantage, and honour, 
 and so forth — but there is something so 
 unusual about the whole affair — it really, 
 as I have said, places me in a position that 
 1 never was placed in before — What would 
 be my feelings, if your father should not 
 come round, and my dear girl was disowned 
 by the family ! Well, well ! that could 
 hardly happen I think, with her accomplish- 
 ments and education, and manners too, so 
 distinguished — though perhaps I ought not 
 to say so. Her schooling alone was a 
 hundred a-year, Sir, without including 
 extras — "
 
 BASIL. 223 
 
 " I am sure, Mr. Sherwin — " 
 
 " — A school, Sir, where it was a rule 
 to take in nothing lower than the daughter 
 of a professional man — they only waived 
 the rule in my case — the most genteel 
 school perhaps in all London ! A drawing- 
 room-deportment day once every week — 
 the girls taught how to enter a room and 
 leave a room with dignity and ease — a 
 model of a carriage door and steps, in 
 the back drawing-room, to practise the 
 girls (with the footman of the establish- 
 ment in attendance) in getting into a 
 carriage and getting out again, in a lady- 
 like, graceful manner ! No duchess has 
 had a better education than my Mar- 
 garet !— - " 
 
 " Permit me to assure you, Mr. Sher- 
 win — 
 
 " And then, her knowledge of languages
 
 224 BASIL. 
 
 — her French, and Italian, and German, not 
 discontinued in holydays, or after she left 
 school (she has only just left it) ; but all 
 kept up and improved every evening, by the 
 kind attention of Mr. Mannion — " 
 
 " May I ask who Mr. Mannion is ?" 
 The tone in which I put this question 
 cooled his enthusiasm about his daughter's 
 schooling immediately. He answered in 
 his former tones, and with one of his former 
 bows : 
 
 "Mr. Mannion is my confidential clerk 
 Sir — a most superior person, most highly 
 talented and well read, and all that." 
 
 " Pray, is he a young man ?" 
 
 " Young ! Oh, dear no ! Mr. Man- 
 nion is forty, or a year or two more, if 
 he's a day — an admirable man of business, 
 as well as a great scholar. He's at Lyons 
 now, buying silks for me. When he
 
 BASIL. 225 
 
 comes back I shall be delighted to intro- 
 duce—" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but I think we are 
 wandering away from the point a little." 
 
 " I beg your's — so we are. Well, my 
 dear Sir, I must be allowed a day or two 
 — say two davs — to ascertain what mv 
 daughter's feelings are, and to consider your 
 proposals, which have taken me very much 
 by surprise, as you may in fact see — but 
 I assure vou I am most flattered, most 
 honoured, most anxious — " 
 
 " I hope you will consider my anxieties, 
 Mr. Sherwin ; and let me know the 
 result of vour deliberations as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 " Without fail, depend upon it. Let mt- 
 see : shall we say the second day from this, 
 at the same time, if you can favour me 
 with a visit ?" 
 
 L 3
 
 226 BASIL. 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " And between that time and this, you 
 will of course not object to — to engaging 
 not to hold any communication with my 
 daughter ?" 
 
 " I promise not, Mr. Sherwin — because 
 I think I may feel convinced that your 
 answer will be favourable." 
 
 " Ah, well — well ! lovers they say should 
 never despair — a little consideration, and a 
 little talk with my dear girl — really now, 
 won't you change your mind and have a 
 glass of sherry ? (No, again !) Very well, 
 then, the day after to-morrow, at five 
 o'clock." 
 
 With a louder crack than ever, the bran- 
 new drawing-room door was opened to let 
 me out. The noise was instantly succeeded 
 by the rustling of a gown, and the banging 
 of another door, at the opposite end of the
 
 BASIL. 227 
 
 passage. Had anybody been listen in. 
 Where was Margaret ? 
 
 Mr. Sherwin stood at the garden-gate 
 to watch my departure, and make his fare- 
 well bow. Thick as was the atmosphere 
 of love-illusion in which I now lived, I 
 shuddered involuntarilv as I returned his, 
 
 n 
 
 parting salute, and thought of him as my 
 father-in-law !
 
 228 BASIL. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The nearer I approached to our own 
 door, the more reluctance I felt to pass 
 the short interval between my first and 
 second interview with Mr. Sherwin, at 
 home. When I entered the house, this 
 reluctance increased to something almost 
 like dread. Forebodings began to grow on 
 me that I might betray myself, in the 
 suspense and inaction of the two day's delay
 
 BASIL. 229 
 
 which I had now to endure. I felt un- 
 willing and unfit to meet the eyes of my 
 nearest and dearest relatives. It was a 
 relief to me to hear that my father was not 
 at home. Mv sister was in the house : 
 the servant said she had just gone into the 
 library, and inquired whether he should tell 
 her that I had come in. I desired him not 
 to disturb her, as it was my intention to 
 go out again immediately. 
 
 I went into my study, and wrote a short 
 note there to Clara; merely telling her that 
 I should be absent in the country for two 
 days. I had sealed and laid it on the table 
 for the servant to deliver, and was about 
 to leave the room, when I heard the library 
 door open. I instantly drew back, and 
 half-closed my own door again. Clara had 
 got the book she wanted, and was taking 
 it up to her own sitting-room. I waited till
 
 230 BASIL. 
 
 she was not in sight, and then went 
 out. It was the first time that I had 
 ever avoided my sister — my sister who 
 had never in her life asked a question, or 
 uttered a word that could annoy me ; my 
 sister, who had confided all her own little- 
 secrets to my keeping, ever since we had 
 been children. As I thought on what I 
 had done, I felt a sense of humiliation which 
 was punishment enough even for the mean- 
 ness of which I had been guilt v. 
 
 I went round to the stables, and had 
 my horse saddled immediately. No idea 
 of proceeding in any particular direction 
 occurred to me. I simply felt resolved to 
 pass my two days' ordeal of suspense away 
 from home — far enough away to keep me 
 faithful to my promise not to see Mar- 
 garet. Soon after I started, I left my 
 horse to his own guidance, and gave myself
 
 BASIL. 231 
 
 up to my thoughts and recollections, as one 
 by one they rose within me. The animal 
 took the direction which he had been oftenest 
 used to take, during my residence in London 
 — the northern road. 
 
 It was not until I had ridden half a 
 mile beyond the suburbs that I looked 
 around me, and discovered towards what part 
 of the country I was proceeding. I drew 
 the rein directly, and turned my horse's head 
 back again, towards the south. To follow 
 the favourite road which I had so often 
 followed with Clara, to stop perhaps at 
 some place where I had often stopped 
 with her, was more than I had the courage 
 or the insensibility to do at that moment. 
 
 I rode as far as Ewell, and stopped 
 there : the darkness had overtaken me, 
 and it was useless to tire my horse by 
 going on any greater distance. The next
 
 232 BASIL. 
 
 morning, I was up almost with sunrise ; 
 and passed the greater part of the day in 
 walking about among villages, lanes, and 
 fields, just as chance led me. During the 
 night, many thoughts that I had banished 
 for the last week had returned — those 
 thoughts of evil omen, under which the mind 
 seems to ache, just as the body aches under 
 a dull, heavy pain, to which we can assign 
 no particular place or cause. Absent from 
 Margaret, I had no resource against the 
 oppression that now overcame me. I could 
 only endeavour to alleviate it by keeping 
 incessantly in action ; by walking or riding, 
 hour after hour, in the vain attempt to 
 quiet the mind by wearying out the body. 
 Apprehension of the failure of my appli- 
 cation to Mr. Sherwin had nothing to do 
 with the vague gloom which now darkened 
 my thoughts; they kept too near home for
 
 BASIL. 233 
 
 that. Besides, what I had observed of 
 
 Margaret's father, especially during the latter 
 
 part of my interview with him, showed me 
 plainly enough that he was trying to conceal, 
 
 under exaggerated surprise and assumed 
 hesitation, his secret desire to profit at once 
 by my offer ; which, whatever conditions 
 might clog it, was infinitely more advan- 
 tageous, in a social point of view, than any 
 he could have hoped for. It was not his 
 delay in accepting my proposals, but the 
 burden of deceit, the fetters of concealment 
 forced on me by the proposals themselves, 
 which now hung heavy on my heart. 
 
 That evening I left Eweli, and rode towards 
 
 home again, as far as Richmond, where I 
 
 » 
 
 remained for the night and the forepart of 
 the next day. I reached London in the 
 afternoon ; and got to North Villa — without 
 going home first — about five o'clock.
 
 234 BASIL. 
 
 The oppression was still on my spirits. 
 Even the sight of the house where Mar- 
 garet . lived ; even the excitement of the 
 approaching interview which was to decide 
 so much, failed to invigorate or arouse 
 me. 
 
 On this occasion, when I was shown into 
 the drawing-room, both Mr. and Mrs. Sher- 
 win were awaiting me there. On the table 
 was the sherry which had been so persever- 
 ingly pressed on me at the last interview, 
 and by it a new pound-cake. Mrs. Sherwin 
 was cutting the cake as I came in, while her 
 husband watched the process with critical 
 eyes. The poor woman's weak, ghastly 
 white fingers trembled as they moved the 
 knife under conjugal inspection. 
 
 " Most happy to see you again — most 
 happy indeed, my dear Sir," said Mr. 
 Sherwin, advancing with hospitable smile
 
 BASIL. 235 
 
 and outstretched hand. " Allow me to in- 
 troduce my better half, Mrs. S." 
 
 The " better half " rose in a hurry, and 
 courtseyed, leaving the knife sticking in the 
 cake ; upon which Mr. Sherwin, with a stern 
 look at her, ostentatiously pulled it out, and 
 set it down rather violently on the dish. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Sherwin ! I had hardly' noticed 
 her on the day when she got into the omnibus 
 with her daughter — it was as if I now saw 
 her for the first time. There is a natural 
 communicativeness about women's emotions 
 which men's do not possess. A happy woman 
 imperceptibly diffuses her happiness all around 
 her ; she has an influence that is something 
 akin to the influence of a sunshiny day. So, 
 again, the melancholy of a melancholy woman 
 is invariably, though silently, infectious ; and 
 Mrs. Sherwin was one of this latter order. 
 Her pale, sickly, moist-looking skin ; her
 
 236 BASIL. 
 
 large, mild, watery, light-blue eyes ; the rest- 
 less, vigilant timidity of her expression; the 
 mixture of useless hesitation and nervous, 
 involuntary rapidity in every one of her 
 actions, all furnished the same significant 
 betrayal of a life of incessant fear and re- 
 straint ; of a disposition full of modest gene- 
 rosities and meek sympathies, which had been 
 crushed down past rousing to self-assertion, 
 past ever seeing the light. There, in that 
 mild, wan face of her's — in those painful 
 startings and hurryings when she moved ; 
 in that tremulous, faint utterance when she 
 spoke — there, I could see one of those 
 ghastly heart-tragedies laid open before me, 
 which are not to be written, but which are 
 acted and re-acted, scene by scene and year 
 by year, in the secret theatre of home ; 
 tragedies which are ever shadowed, darkly 
 and more darkly yet, by the slow falling of
 
 BASIL. 237 
 
 the black curtain, that drops lower and lower 
 every day — that drops, to hide all at last, 
 from the hand of Death. 
 
 " We have had very beautiful weather 
 lately, Sir," said Mrs. Sherwin, almost in- 
 audibly; looking as she spoke, with anxious 
 eyes — how eagerly anxious ! — tow r ards her 
 husband, to see if she was justified in uttering 
 even those few piteously common-place words. 
 rt Very beautiful weather, to be sure," con- 
 tinued the poor woman, as timidly as if she 
 had become a little child again, and had been 
 ordered to say her first lesson in a stranger's 
 presence. 
 
 "Delightful weather, Mrs. Sherwin. I 
 have been enjoying it for the last two days 
 in the country — in a part of Surrey (the 
 neighbourhood of Ewell) that I had not seen 
 before." 
 
 There was a pause, Mr. Sherwin coughed :
 
 238 BASIL. 
 
 it was evidently a warning matrimonial peal 
 that he had often rung before; for Mrs. 
 Sherwin started, and looked up at him di- 
 rectly. 
 
 " As the lady of the house, Mrs. S., it 
 strikes me that you might offer a visitor 
 like this gentleman, some cake and wine, 
 without making any particular hole in your 
 manners !" 
 
 " Oh dear me ! I beg your pardon ! I'm 
 very sorry, I'm sure" — and she poured out 
 a glass of wine, with such a trembling 
 hand that the decanter tinkled all the while 
 against the glass. Though I wanted no- 
 thing, I eat and drank something imme- 
 diately, in common consideration for Mrs. 
 Sherwin's embarrassment. At that moment, 
 if a dose of physic had been offered to me, 
 I believe I should have taken it with the 
 same alacrity, from precisely the same motive.
 
 BASIL. 239 
 
 Mr. Sherwin filled himself a glass — held 
 it up admiringly to the light — said, " Your 
 good health, Sir, your very good health;" 
 and drank the wine with the air of a con- 
 noisseur, and a most expressive smacking 
 of the lips. His wife (to whom he offered 
 nothing) looked at him all the time, with 
 the most reverential attention. 
 
 "You are taking nothing yourself, Mrs. 
 
 Sherwin," said I. 
 
 " Mrs. Sherwin, Sir," interposed her hus- 
 band, " never drinks wine, and can't digest 
 
 cake — a bad stomach — a very bad stomach. 
 Have another glass yourself — won't you, 
 indeed ? — it's Sneyd's sherry — stands me 
 in six shillings a bottle — ought to be first- 
 rate wine at that price : and so it is. Well, 
 if you won't have any more, we will pro- 
 ceed to business. Ha ! ha ! business as / 
 call it ; pleasure I hope it will be to you."
 
 240 BASIL. 
 
 Mrs. Sherwin coughed ■ — a very weak, 
 small cough, half-stifled in its birth. 
 
 " There you are again !" said he, turn- 
 ing almost fiercely towards her — " Coughing 
 again ! Six months of the doctor — a six 
 months' bill to come out of my pocket — and 
 no good done — no good, Mrs. S." 
 
 " Oh, I am much better, thank you — it 
 was only a little — " 
 
 " Well, Sir, the evening after you left 
 me, I had what you may call an explanation 
 with my dear girl. She was naturally — 
 naturally, in fact, a little confused and — and 
 embarrassed, indeed. Serious thing, of 
 course, to decide at her age, and at so short 
 a notice, on a point involving the happiness 
 of her whole life to come." 
 
 Here Mrs. Sherwin put her handkerchief 
 to her eyes — quite noiselessly; for she had 
 doubtless acquired by long practice the habit
 
 BASIL. 24 1 
 
 of weeping in silence. Her husband's quick 
 glance turned on her, however, immediately, 
 with anything but an expression of sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 " Good God, Mrs. S. ! what's the use 
 of going on in that way '?" said he indig- 
 nantly, " What is there to cry about ? 
 Margaret isn't ill, and isn't unhappy — what 
 on earth's the matter now? Upon my soul 
 this is a most annoying circumstance : and 
 before a visitor, too ! You had better leave 
 me to discuss the matter alone — you always 
 were in the way of business, and it's my 
 opinion you always will be." 
 
 Mrs. Sherwin prepared without a word 
 of remonstrance, to leave the room. I felt 
 for her from my heart ; but could say 
 nothing. In the impulse of the moment, I 
 rose to open the door for her; and imme- 
 diately repented having done it. The action 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 BASIL. 
 
 added so much to her embarrassment that 
 she kicked her foot against a chair, and 
 uttered a suppressed exclamation of pain as 
 she went out. 
 
 Mr. Sherwin helped himself to a second 
 glass of wine, without taking the smallest 
 notice of this. 
 
 " I hope Mrs. Sherwin has not hurt her- 
 self," said I. 
 
 " Oh dear no ! not worth a moment's 
 thought — awkwardness and nervousness, 
 nothing else — she always was nervous — 
 the doctors (all humbugs) can do nothing 
 with her — it's very sad, very sad indeed; 
 but there's no help for it." 
 
 By this time (in spite of all my efforts 
 to preserve some respect for him, as Mar- 
 garet's father) he had sunk at once to his 
 natural place in my estimation. 
 
 " Well, my dear Sir," he resumed, " to
 
 BASIL. 243 
 
 go back «to where I was interrupted by Mrs. 
 S. Let me see : I was saying that my dear 
 girl was a little confused, and so forth. As 
 a matter of course, I put before her all 
 the advantages which such a connection as 
 your's prpmised — knowing about the family 
 as I do — and, at the same time, mentioned 
 some of the — the little embarrassing cir- 
 cumstances — the private marriage, you 
 know, and all that — besides telling her of 
 certain restrictions in reference to the mar- 
 riage, if it came off, which I should feel it 
 my duty as a father to impose ; and which 
 I shall proceed, in short, to explain to you. 
 As a man of the world, my dear Sir, you 
 know as well as I do, that young ladies 
 don't give very straightforward answers on 
 the subject of their prepossessions in favour 
 of young gentlemen. But, however, I got 
 enough out of her to show me that you had 
 
 M 2
 
 244 BASIL. 
 
 made a pretty good use of your time — no 
 occasion to despond, you know — I leave 
 you to make her speak plain ; it's more 
 in your line than mine, more a good deal. 
 And now we'll come to the business part of 
 the transaction. All I have to say is this : 
 — if you agree to my proposals, then I 
 agree to your's. I think that's fair enough 
 —Eh ?" 
 
 " Quite fair, Mr. Sherwin." 
 
 " Just so. Now, in the first place, my 
 daughter is too young to be married yet. 
 She was only seventeen last birthday." 
 
 " You astonish me ! I should have ima- 
 gined her three years older at least." 
 
 " Everybody thinks her older than she is 
 — everybody, my dear Sir — and she cer- 
 tainly looks it — she's more formed, more 
 developed I may say, than most girls at her 
 age. However, that's not the point. The
 
 BASIL. 24.5 
 
 plain fact is, she's too young to be married 
 now — too young in a moral point of view ; 
 too young in an educational point of view ■ 
 too young in a medical point of view ; too 
 young altogether. I hold strong opinions 
 on this subject, Sir, having one sad example 
 already in my family (in a collateral branch) 
 of the evils, physical and — and in fact of 
 the evils of marrying too early. Well : the 
 upshot of all this is, that I could not give 
 my consent to Margaret's marrying, until 
 another year is out — say a year from this 
 time. One year's courtship for the finishing 
 of! of her education, and the formation of 
 her constitution — you understand me, for the 
 formation of her constitution." 
 
 A year to wait ! Love is tamed by 
 Necessity and taught by Hope ; but, in 
 spite of both, Love will yet retain some- 
 thing of the impatience and impulsiveness
 
 246 BASIL. 
 
 of its first nature. A year to wait ! At 
 first, this seemed a long trial to endure, a 
 trial that ought not to be imposed on me. 
 But the next moment, the delay appeared 
 in a different light. Would it not be the 
 dearest of privileges to be able to see Mar- 
 garet, perhaps every day, perhaps for hours 
 at a time ? Would it not be happiness 
 enough to observe each development of her 
 character, to watch her first timid maiden 
 love for me, advancing nearer and nearer 
 towards confidence and maturity the oftener 
 we met ? As I thought on this, I an- 
 swered Mr. Sherwin without further hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 " It will be some trial," said I, " to my 
 patience, though none to my constancy, none 
 to the strength of my affection — I will wait 
 the year." 
 
 " Exactly so," rejoined Mr. Sherwin,
 
 BASIL. 247 
 
 " such candour and such reasonableness 
 were to be expected from one who is 
 quite the gentleman. And now comes 
 my grand difficulty in this business — the 
 — in fact, the little stipulation I have to 
 make." 
 
 He stopped, and ran his fingers through 
 his hair, in all directions— his features fidget- 
 ting and distorting themselves ominously, 
 while he looked at me. 
 
 " Pray explain yourself, Mr. Sherwin. 
 Your silence gives me some uneasiness at 
 this particular moment, I assure you." 
 
 " Quite so — I understand — no intention 
 I'm sure, as far as that goes, to — Now, 
 you must promise me not to be huffed — 
 offended, I should say — at what I am going 
 to propose." 
 
 " Certainly not !" 
 
 " Well, then, it may seem odd ; but
 
 248 BASIL. 
 
 under all the circumstances — that is to say, 
 as far as the case concerns you personally, 
 I want you and my dear girl to be married 
 at once, and yet not to be married exactly, 
 for another year. I don't know whether 
 you understand me ?" 
 
 " I must confess I do not." 
 
 He coughed rather uneasily ; turned to 
 the table, and poured out another glass of 
 sherry — his hand trembling a little as he 
 did so. He drank off the wine at a 
 draught; cleared his throat three or four 
 times after it ; and then spoke again. 
 
 "Well, to be still plainer, this is how 
 the matter stands : If you were a party in 
 our rank of life, coming to court Margaret 
 with your father's full approval and per- 
 mission, when once you had consented to 
 the year's engagement everything would be 
 done and settled — the bargain would have
 
 BASIL. 249 
 
 been struck on both sides ; and there would 
 be an end of it. But, situated as you are, 
 I can't stop here safely — I mean, I can't 
 end the agreement exactly in this way." 
 
 He evidently felt that he got fluent on 
 wine ; and helped himself, at this juncture, 
 to another glass. 
 
 "You'll see what I am driving at, my 
 dear Sir, directly," he continued. " Sup- 
 pose now, you came courting my daughter 
 for a year, as we settled : and suppose your 
 father found it out — we should keep it a 
 profound secret of course : but still, secrets 
 are sometimes found out, nobody knows 
 how — suppose, I say, your father got scent 
 of the thing, and the match was broken 
 off; where do you think Margaret's repu- 
 tation would be ? If it happened with 
 somebody in her own station, we might 
 explain it all, and be believed : but hap- 
 
 M 3
 
 250 BASIL. 
 
 pening with somebody in yours, what would 
 the world say? Would the w T orld believe 
 you had ever intended to marry her ? 
 That's the point — that's the point pre- 
 cisely." 
 
 " But the case could'nt happen — I'm as- 
 tonished you can imagine it possible. I have 
 told you already, I'm of age." 
 
 " Very true — properly urged — very pro- 
 perly, indeed. But you also told me, if 
 you remember, when I first had the pleasure 
 of seeing you, that your father, if he knew 
 of this match would stick at nothing to 
 oppose it — at nothing — I recollect you said 
 so. Now, knowing this, my dear Sir — 
 though I have the most perfect confidence 
 in your honour, and your resolution to 
 fulfil your engagement — I can't have confi- 
 dence in your being prepared beforehand 
 to oppose all your father might do if he
 
 BASIL. 251 
 
 found us out ; because you can't tell yourself 
 —God only knows what he might be up 
 to, or what influence he might set to 
 work over you. This sort of mess is not 
 very probable, you will say ; but if it's at 
 all possible — and there's a year for it to be 
 possible in — by George, Sir, I must guard 
 against accidents, for my daughter's sake — I 
 must indeed !" 
 
 " In Heaven's name, Mr. Sherwin, pass 
 over all these impossible difficulties of yours ! 
 and let me hear what you have finally to 
 propose." 
 
 " Gently, my dear Sir ! gently, gently, 
 gently ! I propose this, to begin with : that 
 you should marry my daughter — privately 
 marry her — in a week's time. Now, pray 
 compose yourself!" (I was looking at him 
 in speechless delight and astonishment). 
 " Take it easy ; pray take it easy ! Sup-
 
 252 BASIL. 
 
 posing then, you marry her in this way, I 
 make one stipulation. I require you to give 
 me vour word of honour to leave her at the 
 church-door; and for the space of one year 
 never to attempt to see her, except in the 
 presence of a third party. At the end of 
 that time, I will engage to give her to you, 
 as your wife in fact, as well as in name. 
 There ! what do you say to that — eh ?" 
 
 I was too astounded, too overwhelmed, to 
 say anything at that moment, Mr. Sherwin 
 went on : 
 
 "This plan of mine, you see, reconciles 
 everything — in fact, makes it all right. If 
 any accident does happen, and we are 
 discovered, why your father can do nothing 
 to stop the match, because the match will 
 have been already made. And, at the 
 same time, I secure the year's delay, for 
 the finishing of her accomplishments, and
 
 BASIL. 253 
 
 the formation, as I said before, of her 
 constitution, and so forth — I mean, she 
 won't marry too young, and yet she will 
 marry at once. Besides, what an oppor- 
 tunity this gives of your sailing as near the 
 wind as you choose, in breaking the thing, 
 bit by bit, to your father, without fear of 
 consequences, in case he should run rough 
 after all. Upon my honour, my dear Sir, 
 1 think I really deserve some credit for 
 hitting on this plan — it makes everything 
 so right and straight, and suits of course 
 the wishes of all parties ! I need hardly 
 say that you shall have every facility for 
 seeing Margaret, under the restrictions — 
 under the restrictions, vou understand. 
 People, bothering people, may talk about 
 your visits ; but, having got the certificate, 
 and knowing it's all safe and settled, I 
 shan't care for that. No ! no ! we'll keep
 
 254 BASIL. 
 
 our secret, and let 'em talk. There'll be a 
 day come at the end of the year that will 
 rather astonish them, I bet ! Well : and 
 now what do you say? take time to think, 
 if you wish it — only remember that I've 
 the most perfect confidence in your honour 
 and that I act from a fatherly feeling for 
 the interests of my dear girl !" He stopped, 
 out of breath from the extraordinary volu- 
 bility of his long harangue. 
 
 Some men, less mastered by love than 
 I was, would, in my position, have recog- 
 nised in this proposal an unfair trial of 
 self-restraint — perhaps, something like an 
 unfair humiliation as well. Others, would 
 have detected the selfish motives which 
 suggested it ; the mean distrust of my 
 honour, integrity, and firmness of purpose 
 which it implied ; and the equally mean 
 anxiety on Mr. Sherwin's part to clench his
 
 BASIL. 255 
 
 profitable bargain at once, for fear it might 
 be repented of. I discerned nothing of this. 
 As soon as I had recovered from the natural 
 astonishment of the first few moments, I 
 only saw in the strange plan proposed to 
 me, a guarantee for the possession of Mar- 
 garet, a certainty of assuring — no matter 
 with what sacrifice, what hazard, or what 
 delay — the ultimate triumph of my love. 
 When Mr. Sherwin had ceased speaking, I 
 replied at once : 
 
 " I accept your conditions — I accept them 
 with all mv heart." 
 
 He was hardly prepared for so complete 
 and so sudden an acquiescence in his pro- 
 posal, and looked absolutely startled by it, 
 at first. But soon resuming his self-pos- 
 session — his wily, " business-like ' self- 
 possession — he started up, and shook me 
 vehemently by the hand.
 
 256 BASIL. 
 
 " Delighted — most delighted, my dear 
 Sir!" cried he — "to find how soon we 
 understand each other, and that we pull 
 together so well. We must have another 
 glass ; hang it, we really must ! a toast, 
 you know ; a toast you can't help drink- 
 ing — your wife ! Ha ! ha ! — I had you 
 there ! — my dear, dear Margaret, God bless 
 her !" 
 
 "We may consider all difficulties finally 
 settled then," said I, anxious to close my 
 interview with Mr. Sherwin as speedily as 
 possible. 
 
 "Decidedly so. Done, and double done, 
 I may say. There will be a little insurance 
 on your life, that I shall ask you to effect 
 for dear Margaret's sake, and — and, 
 perhaps, just a memorandum of agree- 
 ment, engaging to settle a certain pro- 
 portion of any property you may become
 
 BASIL. 257 
 
 possessed of, on her and her children. 
 You see I am looking forward to my grand- 
 father days already ! — my grandfather days 
 — hey? But all this will do for a future 
 occasion — say in a day or two." 
 
 " Then I presume there will be no objec- 
 tion to my seeing Miss Sherwin now ?" 
 
 "None whatever — at once, if you like. 
 This way, my dear Sir; this way," and he 
 led me across the passage, into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 This apartment was furnished with less 
 luxury, but with more bad taste (if pos- 
 sible) than that we had just left. Near the 
 window sat Margaret — it was the same 
 window at which I had seen her, on the 
 evening when I wandered into the square, 
 after our meeting in the omnibus. The 
 cage with the canary-bird, hung too in the 
 same place. I just noticed — and with a
 
 258 BASIL. 
 
 momentary surprise — that Mrs. Sherwin 
 was sitting far away from her daughter, at 
 the other end of the room ; and then placed 
 myself by Margaret's side. She was dressed 
 in pale yellow — a colour which gave new 
 splendour to her dark complexion and mag- 
 nificently dark hair. Once more, all my 
 doubts, all my self-upbraidings, all my op- 
 pression of spirit vanished, and gave place 
 to the exquisite sense of happiness, the 
 w T arm glow of joy, and hope, and love which 
 seemed to rush over my heart, the moment 
 I looked at her. 
 
 After staying in the room about five 
 minutes, Mr. Sherwin whispered to his wife, 
 and left us. Mrs. Sherwin still kept her 
 place ; but she said nothing, and hardly 
 turned to look round on us, more than 
 once or twice. Perhaps, she was occupied 
 by her own thoughts; perhaps, from a
 
 BASIL. 259 
 
 motive of delicacy, she abstained even from 
 an appearance of watching her daughter or 
 watching me. Whatever feelings influenced 
 her, I cared not to speculate on them. 
 It was enough that I had the privilege of 
 speaking to Margaret uninterruptedly ; of 
 declaring my love at last, without hesitation 
 and without reserve. 
 
 How much I had to say to her, and 
 how short a time seemed to be left me that 
 evening to say it in ! How short a time to 
 tell her all the thoughts of the past which 
 she had created in me ; all the self-sacrifice 
 to which I had cheerfully consented for her 
 sake ; all the anticipations of future happi- 
 ness which were concentrated in her, which 
 drew their very breath of life only from the 
 prospect of her rewarding love ! Though 
 whole days had been granted to me for that 
 one interview, could those days have ex-
 
 260 BASIL. 
 
 hausted all that I had to say, all that the 
 abundant love-language of happy youth was 
 rich enough to pour forth ? 
 
 Margaret spoke but little; yet even that 
 little it was a new delight to hear. She 
 smiled now ; she let me take her hand, 
 and made no attempt to withdraw it. The 
 evening had closed in ; the darkness was 
 stealing fast upon us; the still, dead-still 
 figure of Mrs. Sherwin, always in the same 
 place and the same attitude, grew fainter 
 and fainter to the eye, across the distance 
 of the room — but no thought of time, no 
 thought "of home ever once crossed my 
 mind. I could have sat at the window with 
 Margaret the long night through; without 
 a thought of numbering the hours as they 
 passed. 
 
 Ere long, however, Mr. Sherwin entered the 
 room again; and effectually roused me by
 
 BASIL. 261 
 
 approaching and speaking to us. I saw 
 that I had staid long enough, and that we 
 were not to be left together again, that 
 night. So I rose and took my leave, having 
 first fixed a time for seeing Margaret on the 
 morrow. Mr. Sherwin accompanied me with 
 great ceremony to the outer door. Just as 
 I was leaving him, he touched me on the 
 arm, and said in his most comfortable and 
 confidential tones : 
 
 " Come an hour earlier, to-morrow ; and 
 we'll go and get the licence together. No 
 objection to that- — eh ? And the mar- 
 riage, shall we say this day week ? Just 
 as you like, you know — don't let we 
 seem to dictate. Ah ! no objection to 
 that, either, I see ; and no objection on 
 Margaret's side, I'll warrant ! With re- 
 spect to consents, in the marrying part
 
 262 BASIL. 
 
 of the business, there's complete mutuality 
 — isn't there ? Good night : God bless 
 you !"
 
 BASIL. 263 
 
 XIII. 
 
 That night I went home with none of 
 the reluctance or the apprehension which I 
 had felt on the last occasion, when I ap- 
 proached our own door. The assurance of 
 success contained in the events of the after- 
 noon, buoyed me up. I felt a trust in 
 my own self-possession — a confidence in my 
 own capacity to parry all dangerous ques- 
 tions, which I had not experienced before
 
 264 BASIL. 
 
 I cared not how soon, or for how long a 
 time, I might find myself in company with 
 Clara or my father. It was well for the 
 preservation of my secret that I was in this 
 frame of mind ; for, on opening my study 
 door, I was astonished to see both of them 
 in my room. 
 
 Clara was measuring one of my over- 
 crowded book-shelves, with a piece of string ; 
 and was apparently just about to compare 
 the length of it with a vacant space on the 
 wall close by, when I came in. Seeing me, 
 she stopped ; and looked round significantly 
 at my father, who was standing near her, 
 with a file of papers in his hand. 
 
 " You may well seem surprised, Basil, at 
 this invasion of your territory" — said he, in 
 his usual quiet, clear tones ; but with pecu- 
 liar kindness of manner — " you must, how- 
 ever, apply there, to the prime minister of
 
 BASIL. 265 
 
 the household," pointing to Clara, " for an 
 
 explanation. I am only the instrument of a 
 
 deep domestic intrigue on your sister's part." 
 Clara seemed doubtful whether she should 
 
 speak. It was the first time I had ever seen 
 such an expression in her face, when she 
 looked into mine. Had reserve begun to 
 spoil the wonted frankness of our inter- 
 course ? — on her side too ! If it were so, who 
 had set the first example of reserve? My 
 own heart answered the question more readily 
 and more plainly than I liked. 
 
 "We are discovered, papa," said Clara, 
 after a momentary silence, " and we must 
 explain ; but you know I always leave as 
 many explanations as I can, to you." 
 
 " Very well," said my father, smiling ; 
 " my task in this instance will be an easy 
 one. I was slily intercepted, Basil, on my 
 way to my own room, where the steward 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 BASIL. 
 
 was waiting for me, by your sister ; and taken 
 in here to advise about a new set of book- 
 cases for you, when I ought to have been 
 passing this part of the night in attending 
 to my own money matters. Clara's idea was 
 to have had these new book-cases made in 
 secret, and put up as a surprise, some day 
 when you were not at home. However, as 
 you have caught her in the act of measuring 
 spaces, with all the skill of an experienced 
 carpenter, and all the impetuosity of an 
 arbitrary young lady, who rules supreme 
 over everybody, further concealment is out 
 of the question. So we must make a virtue 
 of necessity, and confess everything." 
 
 Poor Clara ! This was her only return 
 for ten day's utter neglect — and she had 
 been half afraid to tell me of it herself. I 
 approached and thanked her — not very 
 gratefully, I am afraid, for I felt too con-
 
 BASIL. 267 
 
 fused to speak freely. It seemed like a 
 fatality. The more evil I was doing in 
 secret, evil to family ties and family prin- 
 ciples, the more good was unconsciously 
 returned to me by my family, through 
 my sister's hands. 
 
 " I made no objection, of course, to the 
 bookcase plan," continued my father, "for 
 more room is really wanted for the volumes 
 on volumes that you have collected about 
 you; but I certainly suggested a little delay 
 in the execution of the project. The book- 
 cases will, at all events, not be wanted here 
 for five months to come. This day week 
 we return to the country." 
 
 I could not repress a start of astonish- 
 ment and dismay. Here was a difficulty 
 and a trial which I ought to have provided 
 for; but which I had most unaccountably 
 never once thought of, though it was now 
 
 N 2
 
 268 BASIL. 
 
 the period of the year at which on all 
 former occasions we had been accustomed 
 to leave London. This day week, too ! 
 The very day fixed by Mr. Sherwin for 
 my marriage ! A sensation of terror came 
 over me — a chill, benumbing sensation — 
 as I tried to consider what I should do. 
 
 " I am afraid, Sir, I shall not be able to 
 go with you and Clara so soon as you 
 propose. It was my wish to remain in 
 London some time longer." I said this in 
 a low voice, without venturing to look at 
 my sister. But I could not help hearing 
 her exclamation, as I spoke, nor the tone 
 in which she uttered it. 
 
 My father moved nearer to me a step or 
 two, and looked in my face intently, with 
 the firm, penetrating, open expression which 
 peculiarly characterized him. 
 
 " Not go back to the country with us l"
 
 BASIL. 269 
 
 said he, his tones and manner altering 
 ominously while he spoke. "That seems 
 a somewhat extraordinary resolution. I 
 thought your sudden absence for the last 
 two days rather odd ; but this plan of re- 
 maining in London by yourself is really 
 incomprehensible. What can you have to 
 
 do r 
 
 An excuse — no ! not an excuse ; let me 
 call things by their right names in these 
 pages — a lie was rising to my lips; but 
 my father checked the utterance of it. He 
 detected my embarrassment immediately, 
 anxiously as I strove to conceal it. 
 
 " Stop," said he, very coldly and calmly, 
 while the red flush, which meant so much 
 when it rose on his cheek, began to appear 
 there for the first time. " Stop : if you 
 must make excuses, Basil, / must ask no 
 questions. You have a secret which you
 
 270 BASIL. 
 
 wish to keep from me ; and I beg you will 
 keep it. No ! not a word more. I have 
 never been accustomed to treat my sons, 
 as I would not treat any other gentlemen 
 with whom I may happen to be associated. 
 If they have private affairs, I cannot inter- 
 fere with those affairs. My trust in their 
 honour is my only guarantee against their 
 deceiving me ; but in the intercourse of 
 gentlemen that is guarantee enough. We 
 will mention this subject no more, if you 
 please. Remain here as long as you like : 
 we shall be happy to see you in the country, 
 when you are able to leave town. Do you 
 wish for any money? — I have my cheque- 
 book in my hand, if you do." 
 
 " Thank you, Sir, I require none." 
 He turned to Clara. " I suppose, my 
 love, you want me no longer. While 1 settle 
 my own matters of business, you can arrange
 
 BASIL. 271 
 
 about the book-cases with your brother. 
 Whatever you wish, 1 shall be glad to do." 
 And he left the room without speaking to 
 me, or looking at me again. I sank into a 
 chair, literally writhing under every one of 
 the last words he had spoken to me. His 
 trust in my honour was his only guarantee 
 against my deceiving him ! As I thought 
 over that declaration, every syllable of it 
 seemed to sear my conscience ; to brand 
 Hypocrite on my heart. In one moment, 
 my position with my father had already 
 become a terrible one. There was no 
 chance of extricating myself from it, but by 
 the immolation of the new-formed hope of 
 my life — the hope, pure and upright in its 
 object, innocent and natural in itself. I loved 
 Margaret honourably ; and yet, circumstances 
 had now made it a dishonour to love her. It 
 was hard — hard to bear ; harder to think of !
 
 272 BA.SIL. 
 
 And then my sister — my kind, patient 
 sister ! I could not vindicate myself, even 
 to her. For the first time since mv father 
 had gone out, I now turned towards Clara. 
 She was standing at a little distance from 
 me, silent and dead-pale, mechanically twist- 
 ing the measuring string which she still 
 held, between her trembling fingers ; and 
 fixing her eyes upon me so lovingly, so 
 gently, so mournfully, that my fortitude 
 gave way when I looked on her. At that 
 instant, I seemed to forget everything that 
 had passed since the day when I first met 
 Margaret, and to be restored once more to 
 my old w T ay of life and my old home-sympa- 
 thies. My head drooped on my breast 
 again ; and I burst into tears. 
 
 Clara stepped quietly to my side; and, 
 sitting down by me, put her arm round 
 my neck. She did not shed a tear, or
 
 BASIL. 273 
 
 utter a word; but let her little caressing 
 action speak for itself. When we were 
 children, she used often to console me in this 
 way under some child's grief; and she con- 
 soled me now. 
 
 When I was calmer, she said, gently : 
 
 " I have been very anxious about you, 
 Basil ; and perhaps I have allowed that 
 anxiety to appear more than I ought, so as 
 to offend you. I only planned the little 
 surprise about the book-shelves, just to show 
 that I was sorry if I had seemed to watch, 
 or doubt you, and that I was ready to — 
 to act for the best, dear ; just as you 
 wished." 
 
 " You have acted for the best, Clara — 
 you always do — what can you think of me, 
 after—" 
 
 " Hush ! not a word about that. I don't 
 want to ask about vour secret ; for I am 
 
 N 3
 
 274 BASIL. 
 
 sure you will tell it me, when the fit time 
 comes for me to know it. But I have some- 
 thing else to ask — something I am very 
 anxious about." 
 
 She stopped, and turned away her head. 
 Her voice had lost its clearness and steadi- 
 ness, when she spoke again. 
 
 " You see, Basil," she continued, " it was 
 a very heavy disappointment to me, to hear 
 that you were not going into the country 
 with us. I had been making myself happy by 
 imagining all the things we should do this 
 autumn — how we should enjoy ourselves in 
 the quiet old house — and then thinking too 
 about your book that I so want to see 
 finished, and that I felt sure vou would do 
 so much to in the country. I am afraid I 
 have been accustomed to exact too much 
 from you — you have been too ready to please 
 me ; but I have been used to it so long ;
 
 BASIL. 275 
 
 and I have nobody else that I can speak to 
 as I can to you. Papa is very kind ; but he 
 can't be what you are to me exactly ; and 
 Ralph does not live with us now 7 , and cared 
 little about me, I am afraid, when he did. 
 I have friends, but friends are not — " 
 
 She stopped again ; her voice was failing 
 her. For a moment, she struggled to keep 
 her self-possession — struggled as only women 
 can — and succeeded in the effort. She 
 pressed her arm closer round my neck ; 
 but her tones were steadier and clearer when 
 she resumed : 
 
 " It will not be very easy for me to give 
 up our country rides and walks together, and 
 the evening talk that we always had at dusk 
 in the old library at the Park ; for I felt so 
 sure we were going to lead that sort of life 
 again this autumn, just as usual. But I 
 think I can resign all this, and go away alone
 
 276 BASIL. 
 
 with papa, for the first time, without making 
 you melancholy by anything I say or do at 
 parting, if you will only give me some 
 assurance that you have not lost trust in me 
 — if you will only promise that when you are 
 in any difficulty you will let me be of some 
 use. I think I could always be of use, 
 because I should always feel an interest in 
 anything that concerned you. I don't want 
 to intrude on your secret ; but if that secret 
 should ever bring you trouble or distress 
 (which I hope and pray it may not), I want 
 you to have confidence in my being able to 
 help you, in some way, through any mis- 
 chances. Let me go into the country, Basil, 
 knowing that you can still put trust in me, 
 even though a time should come when you 
 can put trust in no one else — let me know 
 this : do let me!" 
 
 I gave her the assurance she desired —
 
 BASIL. 277 
 
 gave it sincerely, with my whole heart. She 
 seemed to have recovered all her old in- 
 fluence over me by the few simple words 
 she had spoken, and by the kind tones and 
 still kinder looks proceeding from the 
 anxious affection that animated her. The 
 thought crossed my mind, whether I ought 
 not in common gratitude to confide my 
 secret to her at once, knowing as I did, that 
 it would be safe in her keeping, however the 
 disclosure might startle or pain her. I 
 believe I should have told her all in another 
 minute, but for a mere accident — the 
 trifling interruption caused by a knock at 
 the door. 
 
 It came from one of the servants. My 
 father desired to see Clara on some matter 
 connected with their impending departure for 
 the country. She was unfit enough to obey 
 such a summons, at such a time ; but with
 
 278 BASIL. 
 
 her usual courage in disciplining her own 
 feelings into subserviency to the wishes of 
 any one whom she loved, she determined to 
 obey immediately the message which had 
 been delivered to her. A few moments of 
 silence; a slight trembling, soon repressed; 
 a parting kiss for me ; these few farewell 
 words of encouragement at the door : " Don't 
 grieve about what papa has said ; you have 
 made me feel happy about you, Basil ; I 
 will make him feel so too," — and Clara was 
 gone. 
 
 With those few minutes of interruption, 
 the time for the disclosure of my secret had 
 passed by. As soon as my sister was out of 
 the room, my former reluctance to trust it to 
 home-keeping returned, and remained un- 
 changed throughout the whole of the long 
 year's probation which I had engaged to 
 pass. But this mattered little. As events 
 
 •
 
 BASIL. 279 
 
 turned out, if I had told Clara all, the end 
 would have come in the same way, the 
 fatality would have been accomplished by 
 the same means. 
 
 I went out shortly after my sister had 
 left me ; for I could give myself to no occu- 
 pation at home, for the rest of that night ; 
 and I knew that it would be useless to 
 attempt to sleep just then. As I walked 
 through the streets, bitter thoughts against 
 my father rose in my mind — bitter thoughts 
 against his inexorable family pride, which 
 imposed on me the concealment and secrecy, 
 under the oppression of which I had already 
 suffered so much — bitter thoughts against 
 those social tyrannies, which take no account 
 of natural human sympathies and human 
 loves, and which my father now imper- 
 sonated, as it were, to my ideas. Gradually, 
 however, these reflections merged in others
 
 280 BASIL. 
 
 that were better. I thought of Clara again, 
 with all the hope and trust which she had 
 desired of me; consoling myself with the 
 belief, that, however my father might receive 
 the news of my marriage, I might count 
 upon my sister as certain to love my wife 
 and be kind to her, for my sake. This 
 thought led my heart back to Margaret 
 — led it gently and happily. I went home 
 calmed and reassured again — at least for 
 the rest of the night. 
 
 The events of that week, so fraught 
 with importance for the future of my life, 
 passed with sinister rapidity. The mar- 
 riage license was procured ; all remaining 
 preliminaries with Mr. Sherwin were ad- 
 justed ; I saw Margaret every day, and 
 gave myself up more and more unreservedly 
 to the charm that she exercised over me, 
 at each succeeding interview. At home,
 
 BASIL. 281 
 
 the bustle of approaching departure ; the 
 farewell visitings ; the multitudinous minor 
 arrangements preceding a journey to the 
 country, seemed to hurry the hours on 
 faster and faster, as the parting day for 
 Clara, and the marriage day for me, drew 
 near. Incessant interruptions prevented any 
 more lengthened or private conversations 
 with my sister ; and my father was hardly 
 ever accessible for more than five minutes 
 together, even to those who specially wished 
 to speak with him. Nothing arose to em- 
 barrass or alarm me now, out of my inter- 
 course with home. 
 
 The day came. I had not slept during 
 the night that preceded it ; so I rose early 
 to look out on the morning. 
 
 It is strange how frequently that in- 
 stinctive belief in omens and predestinations, 
 which we flippantly term Superstition,
 
 232 BASIL. 
 
 asserts its natural prerogative even over 
 minds trained to repel it, at the moment of 
 some great event in our lives. I believe 
 this has happened to many more men than 
 ever confessed it ; and it happened to me. 
 At any former period of my life, I should 
 have laughed at the bare imputation of a 
 " superstitious" feeling ever having risen in 
 my mind : but now, as I looked on the 
 sky, and saw the black clouds that over- 
 spread the whole firmament, and the heavy 
 rain that poured down from them, an irre- 
 pressible sickness and sinking of the heart 
 came over me. For the last ten days the 
 sun had shone almost uninterruptedly — with 
 my marriage day came the cloud, the mist 
 and the rain. I tried to laugh myself out of 
 the forebodings which this suggested, and 
 tried in vain. 
 
 The departure for the country was to
 
 BASIL. 283 
 
 take place at an early hour. We all break- 
 fasted together : the meal was hurried over 
 comfortlessly and silently. My father was 
 either writing notes, or examining the 
 steward's accounts, almost the whole time ; 
 and Clara was evidently incapable of ut- 
 tering a single word, without risking the 
 loss of her self-possession. The silence 
 was so complete, while we sat together at 
 the table, that the fall of the rain outside, 
 (which had grown softer and thicker as the 
 morning advanced), and the quick, quiet 
 tread of the servants, as they moved about 
 the room, were audible with a painful 
 distinctness. The oppression of our last 
 family breakfast in London, for that year, 
 had an influence of wretchedness which I 
 cannot describe — which I can never forget. 
 
 At last the hour of starting came. 
 Clara seemed afraid to trust herself even
 
 284 BASIL. 
 
 to look at me now. She hurriedly drew 
 down her veil the moment the carriage was 
 announced. My father shook hands with 
 me rather coldly. I had hoped he would 
 have said something at parting; but he 
 only bade me farewell, in the simplest and 
 shortest manner. I had rather he would 
 have spoken to me in anger, than re- 
 strained himself as he did, just to what the 
 commonest forms of courtesy required. 
 There was but one more slight, after 
 this, that he could cast on me ; and he 
 did not spare it. While my sister was 
 taking leave of me, he waited at the door 
 of the room to lead her down stairs, as 
 if he knew by intuition that this was the 
 last little parting attention which I had 
 hoped to show her myself. 
 
 Clara whispered (in such low trembling 
 tones that I could hardly hear her):
 
 BASTL. 285 
 
 " Think of what you promised in your 
 study, Basil, whenever you think of me: I 
 will write often." 
 
 As she raised her veil for a moment, 
 and kissed me, I felt on my own cheek 
 the tears that were falling fast over her's. 
 I followed her and mv father down stairs. 
 When they reached the street, she gave 
 me her hand — it felt cold and powerless. 
 I knew that the fortitude she had promised 
 to show, was giving way in spite of all her 
 efforts to preserve it : so I let her hurry 
 into the carriage, without detaining her by 
 any last words. The next instant, she 
 and my father were driven rapidly from the 
 door. 
 
 When I re-entered the house, my watch 
 showed me that I had still an hour to 
 wait, before it was time to go to North 
 Villa. Between the different emotions pro-
 
 286 BASIL. 
 
 duced by my impressions of the scene I 
 had just passed through, and my antici- 
 pations of the scene that was yet to come, 
 I suffered in that one hour as much mental 
 conflict as most men suffer in a life. It 
 seemed as if I were living out all my feelings 
 in this short interval of delay, and must 
 die at heart when it was over. My 
 restlessness was a torture to me; and yet 
 I could not overcome it. I wandered over 
 the house from room to room, stopping 
 nowhere. I took down book after book 
 from the library, opened them to read, and 
 put them back on the shelves the next 
 instant. Over and over again, I walked to 
 the window to occupy myself with what 
 was passing in the street; and each time 
 I could not stay there for one minute 
 together. I went into the picture-gallery, 
 looked along the walls, and yet knew not
 
 BASIL. 287 
 
 what I was looking at. At last, I wan- 
 dered into my father's study — the only 
 room I had not yet visited. 
 
 A portrait of my mother hung over the 
 fireplace : my eyes turned towards it, and 
 for the first time I came to a long pause. 
 The picture had an influence that quieted 
 me ; but what influence I hardly knew. 
 Perhaps, it led my spirit up to the spirit 
 that had gone from us — perhaps, those secret 
 voices from the unknown world, which only 
 the soul can listen to, were loosed at that 
 moment, and spoke within me. While I 
 sat looking up at the portrait, I grew 
 strangely and suddenly calm before it. 
 My memory flew back to a long illness 
 that I had suffered from, as a child, when 
 my little cradle-couch was placed by my 
 mother's bedside, and she used to sit by 
 me in the dull evenings and hush me to
 
 288 BASIL. 
 
 sleep. The remembrance of this, brought 
 with it a dread imagining that she might 
 now be hushing my spirit, from her place 
 among the angels of God. A stillness and 
 awe crept over me ; and I hid my face in my 
 hands. 
 
 The striking of the hour from a clock 
 in the room, startled me back to the outer 
 world. I left the house, and went at once 
 to North Villa. 
 
 Margaret and her father and mother 
 were in the drawing-room, when I entered 
 it. I saw immediately that neither of the 
 two latter had passed the morning calmly. 
 The impending event of the day had 
 exercised its agitating influence over them, 
 as well as over me. Mrs. Sherwin's face 
 was pale to her very lips : not a word es- 
 caped her. Mr. Sherwin endeavoured to 
 assume the self-possession which he was
 
 BASIL 289 
 
 evidently far from feeling, by walking briskly 
 up and down the rr;om, and talking inces- 
 santly — asking the most common-place 
 questions, and making the most common- 
 place jokes. Margaret, to my surprise, 
 showed fewer symptoms of agitation than 
 either of her parents. Except when the 
 colour came and went occasionally on her 
 cheek, I could detect no outward evidences 
 of emotion in her at all. 
 
 The church was near at hand. As we 
 proceeded to it, the rain fell heavily, 
 and the mist of the morning was thicken- 
 ing to a fog. We had to wait in the vestry 
 for the officiating clergyman. All the gloom 
 and dampness of the day seemed to be 
 collected in this room — a dark, cold, melan- 
 choly place, with one window which opened 
 on a burial ground steaming in the wet. 
 The rain pattered monotonously on the 
 pavement outside. While Mr. Sherwin 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 290 BASIL. 
 
 exchanged remarks on the weather with 
 the clerk (a tall, lean man, arrayed in a 
 black gown), I sat silent, near Mrs. Sherwin 
 and Margaret, looking with mechanical at- 
 tention at the white surplices which hung 
 before me in a half-opened cupboard — at 
 the bottle of water and tumbler, and the 
 long-shaped books, bound in brown leather, 
 which were on the table. I was incapable 
 of speaking — incapable even of thinking — 
 during that interval of expectation. 
 
 At length the clergyman arrived, and we 
 went into the church — the church, with 
 its desolate array of empty pews, and its 
 chill, heavy, week-day atmosphere. As we 
 ranged ourselves round the altar, a con- 
 fusion overspread all my faculties. My 
 sense of the place I was in, and even of 
 the ceremony in which I took part, grew 
 more and more vague and doubtful every 
 minute. My attention wandered throughout
 
 BASIL. 291 
 
 the whole service. I stammered and made 
 mistakes in uttering the responses. Once 
 or twice I detected myself in feeling im- 
 patient at the slow progress of the ceremony — 
 it seemed to be doubly, trebly longer than its 
 usual length. Mixed up with this impres- 
 sion was another, wild and monstrous as 
 if it had been produced by a dream — an 
 impression that my father had discovered 
 my secret, and was watching me from 
 some hidden place in the church; watching 
 through the service, to denounce and aban- 
 don me publicly, at the end. This morbid 
 fancy grew and grew on me until the termi- 
 nation of the ceremony, until we had left the 
 church and returned to the vestry once more. 
 The fees were paid ; we wrote our names 
 in the books and on the certificate ; the 
 clergyman quietly wished me happiness ; 
 the clerk solemnly imitated him ; the pew- 
 opener smiled and courtseyed ; Mr. Sherwin 
 
 o 2
 
 292 BASIL. 
 
 made congratulatory speeches, kissed his 
 daughter, shook hands with me, frowned 
 a private rebuke at his wife for shedding 
 tears, and, finally, led the way with Mar- 
 garet out of the vestry. The rain was 
 still falling, as they got into the carriage 
 — the fog was still thickening, as I stood 
 alone under the portico of the church, and 
 tried to realise to myself that I was married. 
 
 Married ! The son of the proudest man 
 in England, the inheritor of a name written 
 on the roll of Battle Abbey, wedded to a 
 linen-draper's daughter ! And what a mar- 
 riage ! What a condition weighed on it ! 
 What a probation was now to follow it ! 
 Why had I consented so easily to Mr. 
 Sherwin's proposals ? Would he not have 
 given way, if I had only been resolute 
 enough to insist on my own conditions ? 
 Why had I not thought of this before ? 
 
 How useless to inquire ! I had made the
 
 BASIL. 293 
 
 engagement and must abide by it — abide by 
 it cheerfully. The fair flower I had longed 
 for, was now promised me beyond recall : a 
 year's tending and watching over it, a year 
 to study all its value and beauty ; and then 
 it was mine for ever. This must be my 
 only, all-sufficing thought for the future. 
 No more reflections on consequences, no 
 more forebodings about the effect of the 
 disclosure of my secret on my family — 
 the marriage was over ; the leap into a new life 
 had been taken, and, lead where it might, it 
 was a leap that could never be retraced ! 
 
 Mr. Sherwin had insisted, with the unrea- 
 sonable obstinacy which peculiarly charac- 
 terises feeble-minded people in the manage- 
 ment of their important affairs, that the 
 first clause in our agreement (the leaving 
 my wife at the church -door) should be 
 performed to the letter. As a due compen- 
 sation for this, I was to dine at North Villa
 
 294 BASIL. 
 
 that day. How should I employ the interval 
 that was to elapse before the dinner hour ? 
 
 I went home, and had my horse saddled. 
 I was in no mood for remaining in an 
 empty house, in no mood for calling on any 
 of my friends — I was fit for nothing but a 
 good, hard, hearty gallop through the rain. 
 All my wearing and depressing emotions of 
 the morning, all my vague suspense and 
 nervous dread during the performance of the 
 marriage ceremony, had now merged into a 
 wild, feverish excitement of body and mind. 
 When the horse was brought round, I saw 
 with delight that the groom could hardly 
 hold him. " Keep him well in hand, Sir," 
 said the man, " he's not been out for three 
 days." I was just in the humour for such 
 a ride as the caution promised me. 
 
 And what a ride it was, when I fairly got 
 out of London ; and the afternoon brighten- 
 ing of the foggy atmosphere showed the
 
 BASIL. 295 
 
 smooth, empty high-road before me ! The 
 dashing through the rain that still fell ; the 
 feel of the long, powerful, regular stride of 
 the horse under me ; the thrill of that 
 glorious, muscular sympathy which esta- 
 blishes itself between the man and the 
 steed ; the whirling past carts and waggons, 
 saluted by the frantic barking of dogs 
 inside them ; the flying by roadside ale- 
 houses, with the cheering of boys and half- 
 drunken men sounding for an instant behind 
 me, then lost in the distance — this was 
 indeed to occupy, to hurry on, to annihilate 
 the tardy hours of solitude on my strange 
 wedding-day, exactly as my heart desired ! 
 
 I got home wet through ; but with my 
 body in a glow from the exercise, with my 
 spirits boiling up at blood heat. When I 
 arrived at North Villa, the change in my 
 manner astonished every one. At dinner, I 
 required no pressing now to partake of the
 
 296 BASIL. 
 
 sherry which Mr. Sherwin was so jond of 
 extolling, nor of the port which he brought 
 out afterwards, with a preliminary account 
 of the vintage-date of the wine, and the price 
 of each bottle. My spirits, factitious as 
 they were, never flagged. Every time I 
 looked at Margaret, the sight of her stimu- 
 lated them afresh. She seemed pre-occu- 
 pied, and was unusually silent during dinner ; 
 but her beauty was just that voluptuous, 
 southern-looking beauty which is loveliest 
 in repose. I had never felt its influence so 
 powerful over me, as I felt it then. 
 
 In the drawing-room, after dinner was 
 over, Margaret's manner grew more familiar, 
 more confident towards me than it had 
 ever been before. She spoke to me in 
 warmer tones, looked at me with warmer 
 looks. A hundred little incidents marked 
 our wedding-evening — trifles that love trea- 
 sures up — which still remain in my memory.
 
 BASIL. 297 
 
 One among them, at least, will never depart 
 from it: — I first kissed her on that evening. 
 Mr. Sherwin had gone out of the room ; 
 Mrs. Sherwin was at the other end of it, 
 watering some plants at the window ; Mar- 
 garet, by her father's desire, was showing 
 me some rare prints. She handed me a 
 magnifying glass, through which I was to 
 look at a particular part of one of the 
 engravings, that was considered a master- 
 piece of delicate workmanship. Instead of 
 applying the magnifying test to the print, 
 for which I cared nothing, I laughingly 
 applied it to Margaret's face. Her lovely, 
 lustrous black eye seemed to flash into 
 mine through the glass ; her warm, quick 
 breathing played on my cheek — it was but 
 for an instant, and in that instant I kissed 
 her for the first time. What sensations the 
 kiss gave me then ! — what remembrances it 
 has left me now ! 
 
 o 3
 
 298 BASIL. 
 
 It was one more proof how deeply, how 
 tenderly, how purely I loved her, that, 
 before this time, I had feared to take the 
 first love-privilege which I had longed to 
 assert, and might well have asserted, before. 
 Men may not understand this ; women, I 
 believe, will. 
 
 The hour of departure arrived ; the inex- 
 orable hour which was to separate me from 
 my wife on my wedding evening. Shall I 
 confess what I felt, on the first performance 
 of my ill-considered promise to Mr. Sher- 
 win ? No : I kept this a secret from 
 Margaret ; I will keep it a secret here. 
 
 I took leave of her as hurriedly and 
 abruptly as possible — I could not trust 
 myself to quit her in any other way. She 
 had contrived to slip aside into the darkest 
 part of the room, so that I only saw her 
 face dimly at parting. 
 
 I went home at once. When I lay down
 
 BASIL. 299 
 
 to sleep, and the darkness was all around 
 me ; then the ordeal which I had been un- 
 consciously preparing for myself throughout 
 the day, began to try me. Every nerve in 
 my body, strung up to the extremest point 
 of tension since the morning, now at last 
 gave way. I felt my limbs quivering, till 
 the bed shook under me. I was possessed 
 by a gloom and horror, caused by no pre- 
 vious thought, and producing no thought : 
 the thinking faculty seemed paralysed within 
 me, altogether. The physical and mental 
 re- action, after the fever and agitation of 
 the day, was so frightfully sudden and 
 severe, that the faintest noise from the street 
 now terrified — yes, literally terrified me. 
 The whistling of the wind — which had 
 risen since sunset — made me start up in 
 bed, with my heart throbbing, and my 
 blood all chill. When no sounds were 
 audible, then I listened for them to come —
 
 300 BASIL. 
 
 listened breathlessly, without daring to 
 move. At last, the agony of nervous pros- 
 tration grew worse than I could bear — 
 worse even than the child's horror of walk- 
 ing in the darkness, and sleeping alone on 
 the bed-room floor, which had overcome me, 
 almost from the first moment when I laid 
 down. I groped my way to the table and lit the 
 candle again ; then wrapped my dressing-gown 
 round me, and sat shuddering near the light, 
 to watch the weary hours out till morning. 
 
 And this was my wedding-night! This 
 was how the day ended which had begun 
 by my marriage with Margaret Sherwin ! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

 
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